


Between

by pantswarrior



Series: The Cultists' Cycle [16]
Category: Vagrant Story
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Espionage, Infidelity, M/M, Magic, Pre-Canon, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-10-07
Updated: 2010-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-12 11:46:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantswarrior/pseuds/pantswarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As time grows short and tensions grow high, Sydney and Hardin are beginning to fall apart. A new ally by the name of Rosencrantz is not helping matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Vienna Teng's song "Between", which pretty well made my brain boil over until I couldn't _not_ write this story, as much as I honestly did not want to. Lyrics are used in the first and last bit.  
>  I kind of wish I could convince myself that this was only an AU, and did not happen at all, but it is a part of the same headcanon as the rest.  
> Contains Rosencrantz, who should come with a warning tag of his own.

_I have a prophecy, threatening to spill into words  
This crawling certainty of 'over'..._

Hardin bled, and then he was gone.

His temple pressed against the mattress - he did not know where the pillow had gone; if he had, he'd have used it to muffle his shouts, though he knew the brethren must have become accustomed to them by now - Hardin felt the burning gashes in his back and shoulders cool and heal with Sydney's tired, mumbled words. His eyes closed in relief, and just a touch of regret, as Sydney's warmth and slight weight eased and withdrew from his body.

It was hardly unexpected this time, but vexing nonetheless, when Hardin shifted to roll onto his back - and found him already gone.

Even the faintest traces of his presence had been camouflaged or erased, Hardin confirmed, pushing himself upright to sit on the edge of the bed. He was still disoriented - and how could he not be? Though the wounds Sydney's hands had inflicted were now healed, the spell had been cast while his body still struggled through climax; he had yet to catch his breath. Yet disoriented as he was, he should have been able to See Sydney - here within the city of the Lady, where the Dark bent and twitched to their mutual perversion of the acts of life and death, just as he had. He could feel it swirl about him, pleased to do his bidding since he had given it what it desired.

It could not locate its Keeper, however, no matter how it tried. Or perhaps it _would_ not; Hardin had been the sacrifice, but Sydney had been the one to offer it. If Sydney did not want to be found, he would not be found, and Hardin chose not to expend any more of his strength trying.

Besides, his vanishing was a mere symptom of something larger and more troubling than the disappearance itself, Hardin admitted, resting his head in his hands to brood. Sydney had always assumed a cool demeanor around his followers, more so nowadays; he had to present a calm, determined persona, lest the people belittle his prophesies as the raving of a madman. It was only when the two of them were alone together that Sydney ever let that facade crumble. It had taken some months before he could manage that much, and he had never managed to discard it completely in the years they'd been together. Even so, Hardin had borne witness to warm smiles, dark depressions, the occasional hysteria... frustration, confession, and exultation. Not the least important, he had witnessed those moments of sincere shock in Sydney's eyes when the fated prophet forgot himself enough to show unguarded affection to the man he refused to call his lover - and then remembered.

The only sincere emotion Sydney had deigned to show him during the past season had been violent rage. He'd always been sardonic, casually turning foolish words back upon the one who spoke them, and uttering heresy with a smirk. It only drew his followers closer when he entertained them. Now, however, he spoke to his followers only of what they must do, and when, and why. Sometimes, there was no why involved.

There was little difference when he was speaking to Hardin alone - except that when he gave orders, he expected Hardin to follow without question, and would grow irritable if the questions came regardless. He would speak of trust, of faith, and Hardin could not deny Sydney these things.

And then, sometimes, Sydney would come to the bed they had shared. Only sometimes. When he did not, Hardin often found him with the Sight, reading texts in the library or kneeling in prayer, or perhaps pacing restlessly. When he did, mostly it was to fall into exhausted sleep, but sometimes...

It had always been rare for Sydney to show tenderness, but for Hardin, he had managed. Now there was none, before or after. Though Hardin had long ago offered his body for Sydney's use or abuse, the touch of his clawed hands had once been the touch of a lover, even if they brought pain rather than pleasure. Now, he used them - and Hardin himself - as a release, pushing Hardin down so that he could hardly react as Sydney clutched at him, raging at him and atop him and inside him. When he was finished, sometimes even before Hardin had reached his own climax, he would cast a spell of healing and disappear.

The first time it had happened, Hardin had had to admit with some shame that it had been exciting. When it happened time and time again, however, and his own attempts at initiating something less turbulent were ignored, it had begun to lose a great deal of its appeal. Hardin had even begun to avoid Sydney - not that Sydney couldn't find him easily if he wanted to, but he felt uncomfortable being around him, as he had not since the first days after they'd met. Sydney had once been the voice of the gods, then he had become a man. Now he had become... something else, though Hardin could not say what. He could say only that it was something unsettling.

It was not as though Sydney didn't have his own troubles, however. The days he had foreseen were drawing nearer, he said, and Hardin knew it must be more frightening for him than for anyone else, for anyone else had not seen the things that he had seen. He spent far more time than he used to in rapport with the gods, which left him exhausted. The cardinal's knights continued to track them relentlessly, to the point that they could hardly leave the city without being attacked. The women and children and elderly had been hidden far from Leá Monde, with a detachment of fighters and mages to protect them. Sydney said nothing of them, which likely meant they remained safe, but Hardin knew Sydney, and he knew that the strain must be difficult. Sydney ate very little nowadays, and was beginning to look frail rather than slight - but he would not say a word when Hardin expressed his concern.

...He was growing very tired of worrying for Sydney, when Sydney did not seem to spare much time to think about how his behavior was affecting Hardin. But then, Hardin supposed he had other things to occupy his thoughts.

...He was growing very tired altogether, Hardin admitted to himself. Allowing himself to lie back down on the bed despite the mess he and Sydney had made of it, he curled into himself slightly. Yes, he was very tired of a great many things.

Once he would have sought Sydney out when he felt so troubled and alone - no, Sydney would have sought him out as he stifled it. Sydney had become the one person he would admit weakness to. There may have been others once, but time had changed that. Some had been killed, some were in hiding, some now were to think of him as the head of their very small army. He was the superior officer for all of them... except for Sydney, who was the only equal remaining.

If he could not speak to Sydney, he would not speak to anyone. Instead, he would sleep.

\---

Sydney, on the other hand, was not sleeping. Not yet. It was, perhaps, counter-productive to vent himself on Hardin in such an exhausting way when the result was that he didn't dare fall asleep for some time afterwards.

Instead, he was sitting beside the river that wound through Leá Monde, on a low-lying ledge that few could have reached by any ordinary means. Indeed, with the broken street jutting out above, few knew that his isolated alcove existed. Hardin might have Seen him there, at some time, but Sydney would not allow him to tonight. He'd cleaned himself as well as he could manage - there were no traces of blood on his hands - but he suspected that he looked unpresentable in other ways. Or perhaps too presentable, which might be worse. Hardin knew him too well, and recognized that when Sydney's face fell into perfect serenity, that was when he was most troubled.

This was all counter-productive when he thought about it logically, Sydney admitted to himself. What had he hoped would happen? He would not forget the things he had foreseen - on the contrary, it seemed to make some of his visions far more vivid. And as for Hardin's reaction, even if Sydney had been specifically trying to push him away, Hardin would not leave. He had sworn an oath, and though his faith lacked towards everything but Sydney himself, he was an honorable man. Even if he lost faith in Sydney, he would remain to serve until death.

He knew so little, Sydney thought. None of those who had sworn their oaths could know how little time they had remaining. Even if he were to tell them, they still would not comprehend. Most men, he had found, believed themselves immortal until they saw the arrow fly, or the sword loosed. Even if others were slaughtered, they still remained. Perhaps it did not help, Sydney mused cynically, that for all that they'd seen their brethren die, they had seen him not die so many times of late.

Hardin, whether due to his lack of faith or his personal feelings and history with death, had never quite believed it. When the weapon of a knight pierced his chest, Sydney heard his name shouted in alarm, and would always wake to find Hardin regarding him with anxiety. No matter that Sydney always did wake, in the end. Better than most, Hardin understood that death comes for all, and there was no telling when.

Yes, Hardin understood death more than most in their company. He had once been a soldier; he had put himself in mortal danger many times before he had ever met Sydney. One difference this time was that he fought not merely for much-needed coin, but for a cause he believed in. His anger with those he faced was personal, as was his desire for victory. Most would say that this was a better, more satisfying way for a man to fight.

The other difference this time, however... was that he was going to die.

Sydney had not been given the precise date - he never was - but he could recognize the signs. In his dreams, more and more often, he had seen a man with a sword - the same sword his Lady had once danced with, by which he would recognize his successor. Meanwhile, the cardinal's men continued to press them harder, and news had come from the Greylands only a few days past, informing him of Duke Bardorba's failing health. Their final move must be made soon, within a year, if not less.

Hardin was not the only one who would perish, of course. Many would lay down their lives before victory was won, and Sydney knew he would not last much longer once he had met his successor. Looking out over his followers, he saw dozens who had been thus marked, and he had known for years. Some he had lain with, as with Hardin. Not precisely as with Hardin, he supposed...

There was no room for emotional distraction, however. When it came to the gods' designs, John Hardin was no different than many other men who had pledged their service. They were all tools that desired a use, and the gods would grant them that favor. The only way in which he differed from any other was that Sydney was somehow unable to reconcile it when it came to Hardin, no matter how he tried to make himself believe that this man was as inconsequential as the next in the interest of the greater good. And _gods_ , how he had tried - using Hardin for release and for pleasure, hardly speaking to him otherwise except to discuss the next phase of their strategies.

And still, the vision haunted him. Hardin's grim and determined face, pale and slick with sweat in the flickering torchlight, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His hands, pressed to the wound in his abdomen as he slumped against a crumbling wall, hiding from the rising light of dawn.

Hardin bled, and then he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Hardin shifted on the mattress as he woke the next morning, but only slightly. An old habit; Sydney was a very light sleeper. Not that Sydney was likely to be there this morning. Just in case, Hardin didn't roll over to look, but used the Sight.

No, he was alone. And no wonder - the bedclothes were a filthy, tangled mess. Stained this time as usual, but not torn, as far as he could tell from where he lay looking down at himself. They might have been salvaged, had he thought to put them somewhere to soak before falling asleep.

He grumbled faintly in disgust as he sat up. There was nothing to be done for it, he thought, stripping the sheets from the bed. There were more bedsheets, and he would fetch them once he had washed himself.

Where _was_ Sydney, then, he wondered? Still in hiding? This morning the Dark was more obedient, and he found Sydney easily, lying on his back on one of the spare beds in the barracks, still fast asleep. Hardin decided that he must have grown jaded; where once he would have lingered on the sight, instead he turned his attentions to the pitcher of water on the table. He'd intended it the night before for drinking, not for washing, but there was enough to make himself presentable before he clothed himself and left the room to bathe properly.

Though the sun had not properly risen, there was already warm water for the baths, and Hardin silently undressed behind one of the screens. No one would have taken note of his presence anyhow; there were only two others in the large room, already secreted behind another screen, their conversation punctuated by faint splashes. They seemed to be enjoying themselves.

"Don't look so disappointed - you _have_ gotten me into the bath with you, have you not?"

"I'd hoped you might take more of an interest in what you see..."

Gwynn certainly didn't _sound_ disappointed, Hardin thought, easing himself into the water. The other voice sounded like... Kieran? (With his talent, it would have been easy enough to find out, but he was not going to scrye anyone in the baths.) In context, it seemed correct - the man was a somewhat recent convert, and despite Sydney's assurances that his long-repressed desires would find no condemnation among their number, he was not yet entirely comfortable with them. Hardin could sympathize, and he wondered cynically if Gwynn was the right man to try to convince him. Gwynn had been with Müllenkamp even longer than Hardin - in fact, he had been one of Sydney's consorts before they encountered each other - and was not the slightest bit shy or subtle about his tastes.

"Do I seem disinterested, then?"

"Not _dis_ interested, precisely..."

"The bath is for bathing, besides. ...It is! Don't stare at me so."

"I find it difficult to avoid staring at you. Particularly like this."

Hardin sighed wearily at the pause in their exchange, imagining all too well the looks that must be passing between them. There had been a time, not even so long ago, when he and Sydney had found such conversation entertaining. After his initial discomfort had worn off, Hardin had enjoyed the banter. He wondered when it had begun - this slow descent into bitterness. It would have been much simpler to determine, he supposed, if he could have determined when Sydney had begun this latest bout of indifference. Feigned indifference, Hardin reminded himself - it was obvious that Sydney was troubled just by the pains he took to make it appear as if he wasn't. Even Hardin was having trouble remembering.

But enough of this. He'd gone over it too many times already, and there were other subjects to think upon. Today, he was to begin training with some of the brethren who had taken well to the Dark. Sydney had been training them in magic, but it was no longer sufficient to be skilled with either magic or weaponry. Because of the cardinal's men - and Romeo Guildenstern in particular, who was becoming strangely proficient in routing their usual tactics - they would not be able to survive their encounters with the enemy if they were not trained in both areas.

Hardin ignored the playful conversation going on elsewhere in the room, and considered where to begin. He supposed that the first thing to do was to find out if any of them had previous experience with weaponry, and what kinds. They certainly had plundered a wide assortment to choose from...

A few hours later, quite a variety had been gathered to lean against the wall of the courtyard, all used but cleaned and polished until they gleamed in the morning sun. Hardin stood before his new pupils, his own sword belted to his waist, and schooled his self-consciousness into a grim look, as he always had in such situations. After his own experiences as a youth, he had never had any urge to become a drill instructor.

Sydney had been the only instructor Hardin had not chafed under, perhaps because he had not taken the role of a superior. Neither were the other brethren his underlings, exactly, and Hardin tried not to treat them as such, attempting to lighten the mood occasionally as Sydney had, so the instruction would not seem so oppressive or ominous. "You may not be comfortable with the first weapon you handle. Try raising it, try pointing it, and if it does not feel manageable, put it down for now and try another. Perhaps something completely different, even unfamiliar. Since every one of these weapons was first seen pointed at us by the Crimson Blades, I trust I need not instruct you on which end is which."

This drew a few chuckles, which put him more at ease as the men did as he said, talking amongst themselves while handling the various weapons, picking them up and hefting them, then trying another. Hardin let his attention wander briefly, glancing around the courtyard. Some had come to watch, it seemed - and Sydney was present too, he realized suddenly. He was standing in a shadowy alcove beneath a crumbling statue, arms crossed over his chest, simply observing. Perhaps he'd come to offer advice once they began. After all, Sydney had been the first trained mage that Hardin had instructed in swordplay, and his experience might prove helpful... though Hardin couldn't think what adjustments he might need to make, as Sydney had picked up the forms so quickly and easily. It may have been just because it was Sydney, however - he did anything well if he set his mind to it.

He turned his attention back to those whom he was supposed to be instructing. Like most men, the majority of them were naturally gravitating towards the largest pieces - the spears, the greatswords, the heavy maces. Typical, particularly among those who were untrained. "Don't overlook the one-handed weapons," Hardin advised them. "The largest may look impressive, but require more finesse. For instance, keep in mind that you'd have no hand to spare for a shield. As well, I have seen several well-armed men on horseback taken down by one man who was especially talented with his daggers." The first irreverent comment had gone over well enough, so Hardin tried another. "Regardless of what you might have heard in the taverns, size truly _is_ of no consequence - it is all a matter of whether or not one has technique."

This prompted a few more laughs, and Hardin dared to smile slightly as he glanced over to Sydney; this was the sort of comment he would have taken pleasure in delivering, some time past. This time, however, he did not look the slightest bit amused.

Hardin realized why when he glanced back at the men he'd been training, and saw that many of them had noticed that glance - and evidently believed it to be more meaningful than it was, from the way some smirked or winced. ...Hardin did not delude himself into thinking that the others in their company didn't know that he and Sydney had been sharing a bed for some time, but was it so obvious that they'd been having difficulties lately? So obvious that they would believe he would make such crude remarks about Sydney?

At least _he_ knew that was not Hardin's intention, Hardin thought with another glance back at the alcove. That was one advantage of Sydney being a heartseer. Unfortunately, Sydney was already gone.

Hardin cleared his throat and told his men to get on with it, fortunately not blushing. He was not going to back up or sputter denials - it would only draw more attention to the matter. Let it blow over, he thought. And if they believed he was irritated with Sydney... it was not untrue. Let Sydney hear it in the hearts of others, if he'd stopped listening to what Hardin's heart told him.

Unfortunately, Hardin was not the sort of man who could be personally vindictive. To society as a whole, perhaps, the monarchy and military of course, but not to someone he cared for. As the day wore on, he found himself growing slightly guilty. It was a minor relief when he chanced to come across Sydney in the hallway after dinner, which Sydney had not been present for. Of course he wouldn't speak of it. No need, when Sydney already knew what he would have said.

Instead, as he paused, catching Sydney's eye, he stated something even more obvious. "You did not have dinner, did you?"

Sydney shook his head slightly, but did not elaborate. Hardin wasn't especially surprised; how many times could Sydney explain that he hadn't been feeling well before it was simply assumed? It also didn't surprise him that his guilt was so easily turned to mild concern. Sydney also hadn't slept well, or so Hardin assumed from the lateness of the previous night's visit and his sleeping elsewhere afterwards. It may have been part of the problem. Again, nothing he needed to say aloud. He had, several times. Sydney had wasted no time in showing his irritation with Hardin's concern - he was immortal, after all.

"There are fresh linens on the bed," Hardin told him. Sydney seemed to at least not chafe so much when his concern was shown in a more subtle way. "It should be more comfortable for you."

Sydney smiled slightly, but not at Hardin's words. It was as if he was listening to something far away. "I am not overly concerned with the state of the linens, but thank you."

Hardin hadn't believed for a moment that it was what had kept Sydney away the night before, but hearing Sydney say so was still frustrating. "...As well, if my presence disturbs you," he offered, somewhat reluctantly, averting his eyes, "I shall sleep elsewhere."

"That is not necessary." The faint smile had faded, and now Sydney just looked strained. "The room is yours as well."

"It was yours long before it was mine," Hardin pointed out. "Your willingness to share it has always been appreciated, but it has always been your room."

"And I say it is your room as well," Sydney told him. "You need not seek slumber elsewhere."

Hardin met his gaze plainly. "Nor do you."

Sydney just peered at him, unfazed. Why will you not explain this to me? Hardin thought in exasperation, knowing perfectly well that Sydney would hear.

Sydney did not explain, however - he only nodded in acknowledgment, and continued on his way. Hardin wondered, as he also went back to his evening rounds, if the nod was an indication that Sydney might accept his invitation. An invitation to sleep in his own room; it grated to think that such a thing had become necessary.

By the time Hardin had fallen asleep in their room that night, Sydney had not arrived. When he awoke, just as he expected - he was still alone.  


* * *

The Dark told Sydney many things that distracted and displeased him of late, especially when he was deep in meditation. At the moment, this included the fact that Hardin was scrying, watching him from afar. As he had not yet been to bed, and doubtless looked unwell, Sydney simply blocked himself off, as well as the room in the ancient temple where he knelt. Almost immediately, he felt a twinge of remorse; Hardin had once described the feeling of being cut off in that way as being similar to having been slapped in the face, and this was not the way to begin the day on a good note.

He ignored it, however, and reminded himself that Hardin deserved it, for the most part. Of course he knew better than to believe that Hardin had meant any harm - the misinterpretation said more about the minds of the other men than it did about Hardin's intentions. No one would have remembered the comment five minutes later had they not jumped to conclusions, based on assumptions they had already made about the state of his relationship with Hardin. And even so, it would not have been memorable if it had been allegedly aimed at anyone but himself - Sydney Losstarot, Keeper of the Dark, immortal voice of the gods, high priest and prophet of the end days. No one would dare question him, much less speak disrespectfully of him. None but Hardin.

Sydney found that he was smiling faintly in spite of himself. To be honest, that was one reason he'd become so fond of Hardin. A certain amount of blind faith and unquestioning obedience was required in his followers, given the role he was to play, but Hardin's occasional insolence was far more comfortable. It even felt reassuring sometimes to know that at least one man followed not because of the Dark and his prophesies, but because he knew the human behind them.

Blind as they may be in some ways, the assumptions his followers had made regarding himself and Hardin were correct, of course. There were no fools among his men - not now. Müllenkamp could ill afford the dubious assistance of fools at this time.

And he personally could ill afford dissent among their number - and was that not where the murmurs and speculation would lead? Those who may question his divine appointment were beginning to have second thoughts, for Hardin was well-respected among the brethren, who knew that he knew Sydney better than anyone; disapproval from Hardin was a serious matter. Those whose faith in him was unshakable - they were beginning to feel uncertain about Hardin, for if he had done something that displeased Sydney, he may not be worthy of being Müllenkamp's second-in-command. It was bad enough to have the strain between the two of them to deal with, without it seeping out into the whole of their company and causing a rift. He would have to do something about this.

It was difficult to think this way, Sydney thought with irritation, realizing that the man had once again distracted him from his prayers.  


* * *

"Be it true," Duncan asked at breakfast, looking puzzled, "that Sydney an' yerself've been fighting?"

Hardin managed not to glare at Duncan. He was, after all, one of the first friends Hardin had made among their number, and he had been off on a patrol the past few days, partnered with Aiden, who sat beside him, listening with curious interest. Duncan was only repeating the rumors that Hardin had suspected to be circulating just out of his earshot.

"We are not 'fighting'," he stated firmly. "If this has to do with a remark I made yesterday, it was not aimed at Sydney, nor at anyone else." In truth, if it had been mocking anyone at all, Hardin thought, it would have been mocking himself. Once his stature had been a source of pride, but next to Sydney he often felt overly large and clumsy.

"It be more than that," Duncan replied dismissively. "Ye were actin' a mite off well before Aiden an' I left, an' I was thinkin' as much... Then I come back to all kinds of rumors. E'en if they be only half true..."

"It is true that we have not been quite comfortable with one another..." ...And that was all Hardin could say, wasnt' it? No one saw Sydney the same way he did, and Duncan was the one who had, long ago, told him matter-of-factly that Sydney was immortal. If he tried to suggest that Sydney might be unwell, or suffering from the pressure of his position, Duncan would not believe it.

"Was it something ye did? Or just..."

"I could not say. If I've done something to displease him, he has not told me what it is that I've done."

"Perhaps it has nothing to do with displeasure," Aiden suggested. "You do realize that he was never inclined to single out one of us as the favorite."

Hardin looked at the man in disbelief. This was true enough - Aiden had been one of Sydney's consorts before they'd met - but those sorts of affairs were different than the relationship he and Sydney shared. At least, he'd believed so for quite some time...

Before he could manage to think of a way to put forth this idea without sounding overly defensive, Duncan spoke up. "Aye, but things changed when he met Hardin. No more countin' heads around the campfires an' wonderin' which head would come up missin' tonight. 'Twas yours, often enough." Aiden muffled a chuckle in his drink, and Hardin wondered why he'd ever thought that Duncan was too ... ordinary to speak of such things. For all that Duncan vastly preferred women, and was not shy when it came to saying how much he preferred them, there was no one among their number who would bat an eye at Sydney's habits, or those he chose to indulge in them with.

"True," Aiden acknowledged, turning back to Hardin thoughtfully. "And although we all knew we had no right to resent you for it, Hardin - none of us ever had a claim to more of him than he offered - some of us were curious... You have been chosen as his successor, no?"

...Successor? Hardin had no idea what to say to that. It was not as if the thought had never occurred to him, but it had mostly been in the context of praying that it was _not_ his destiny. Such things hadn't crossed his mind for a long time anyhow. "Where did this idea come from?"

"When Sydney met his predecessor, the two of them were very close - in fact, the other had taken no consorts among the brethren until Sydney appeared." Aiden nodded knowingly. "It seemed to be similar when he met you."

"How would you know?" Hardin asked, narrowing his eyes incredulously. The idea was absurd. "You've spoken of how you came to follow Sydney, when he was already the high priest."

"He... took to me rather quickly." Aiden looked somewhat self-conscious all of a sudden. "Some who had been with Müllenkamp longer than I, longer than even Sydney, told me that I resembled the former high priest."

Hardin considered this for a moment, and decided he didn't want to think about Sydney's former partners. Just thinking about Sydney on his own was frustrating enough. "To my knowledge, I am nothing more than his second. He's never suggested more." But then - would he? Especially knowing that Hardin wanted none of it?

"Hmm..." Duncan looked speculative, most likely thinking along the same lines. Just how many assumptions _were_ there about him, Hardin thought, annoyed? He'd hoped that the respect shown by the brethren had been because he'd earned it, rather than because of rumored power.

Actually, Hardin decided that he didn't want to think about any of it anymore - it was unsettling. "I'll need a full report from your patrol," Hardin told them, glad to have a valid reason to change the subject. "More formally after breakfast. I trust there's nothing urgent?"

"Not at all," Duncan replied, and Aiden nodded in agreement. "Mostly we've been seein' what we already knew, or guessed. Blades've been pokin' at the tunnel into the wine cellar from across the way - an' I wager they're not after a drink..."

"I doubt anyone here would take you up on that wager," Aiden chuckled.

Matters of security and surveillance were enough to keep them occupied for the remainder of the meal, and for a short time afterwards. Eventually, after talking to a few others who had been sent out to scout the surrounding area, and the men who were to return that afternoon from a trip to the camp they'd set up for the women, children, and elderly - eventually Hardin would need to pass the compiled information on to Sydney.

Hardin was not looking forward to this. Between Sydney's having abruptly turned the Dark back at him early that morning, and the discovery of more rumors than Hardin had suspected, he knew there was no way to make such a meeting _not_ awkward and suspicious. Sydney had enough to deal with, Hardin thought, without the questions that circled through his thoughts. But if there was any truth to them, Hardin should know. ...But if there _was_ any truth to them, surely Sydney would have told him already.

Later, Hardin told himself firmly. There were other things to be taken care of. More training - and Sydney would be busy with the same, teaching magic rather than weaponry - more reports, more strategies and maneuvers to think upon. They were running a bit low on some supplies, so someone must ride to a nearby town... It was unlikely that he would have a chance to speak to Sydney until after dinner.

He did not quite manage to put it off that long, however. After having spoken to everyone whose information he required, and arranging for two of their number to travel to a nearby village the next day, Hardin settled down for a slightly late dinner. Lost in thought, he wasn't paying much attention to the conversation of his companions until it quieted suddenly. Before Hardin could look to see what was the matter, he felt a hand settle on his shoulder - a familiar hand, for he could feel the thin edges of the fingers through the wool of his shirt.

He looked up to see a little smile of... amusement, perhaps? on Sydney's face. "I'd like to have your report tonight, Hardin."

Was that a rebuke? Hardin frowned. "I only spoke to the last team a short time ago - I'd intended to find you after dinner."

"Not to worry," Sydney assured him smoothly. "I've been otherwise occupied as well. Shall we convene in our room, once you've finished?"

Hardin hesitated. Sydney was acting so _normal_ all of a sudden. He wished he could feel relieved instead of wary. "As you wish," he agreed. And since he was acting as if nothing was wrong... "Have you eaten yet?"

Sydney shook his head, still smiling a bit, and the hand on Hardin's shoulder instead came to rest on his head, almost fondly. "Not yet. Why don't you bring something for me when you come?"

The cool tone of his voice and the eerie almost-bite of his fingers upon Hardin's scalp were embarrassingly compelling, more than enough to make Hardin's heart beat faster just by instinct. "...What would you like?"

"Whatever you see fit to bring will be fine," Sydney replied, nearly stroking Hardin's hair. "You know my tastes by now, I should think."

He did. Hardin swallowed, finding it very difficult to remember that he'd been annoyed with Sydney only recently. Not Sydney's compulsion, though - this was his own weakness. "I'm sure I can find something appropriate."

"Of course." The metal claws removed themselves from Hardin's hair, and Sydney gave Hardin one last little smirk before turning to leave.

Hardin could feel many curious pairs of eyes on him, no doubt all wondering what had changed. Well - he couldn't answer that question when he was wondering the same. Before anyone could ask it aloud, he turned to the others at the table. "What was it you were just saying, Kermiak, about the animals behaving oddly?" Another old friend of his, who had gone out on a hunt - but he would answer Hardin's question, because of his rank among them. "In what way?"

Despite Kermiak's willingness to change the subject at his request, Hardin was still receiving the curious looks, and he finished his dinner quickly. He had more than one reason to do so.

After gathering some rolls and fruit and a bit of butter - Hardin wasn't convinced that Sydney was actually in the mood for dinner, but he _had_ agreed to bring him some - Hardin took the covered plate to their room, pausing outside for just a moment. Was Sydney truly inside? The Sight showed Hardin that he was, seated in a chair at their small table, waiting.

Almost immediately, Sydney raised an eyebrow at the phantom Hardin that stood inside the room with him. "You may enter, Hardin," he said, seemingly amused. "You were, after all, invited." Feeling foolish, Hardin reached for the door's handle.

He'd been right - Sydney still looked ill and exhausted, and his eyes remained downcast as Hardin set the plate before him on the table, despite the murmured words of appreciation. A moment's hesitation, and Hardin seated himself across from Sydney to uncover the plate. He noticed the sideways glance at the aroma of fresh rolls and butter, which he knew Sydney fancied. Knowing from experience that it would do no good to encourage Sydney to eat, he reached for one of the rolls himself, buttering it and then wordlessly breaking it to offer half to Sydney. He was relieved when Sydney accepted it, picked at it restlessly for a moment, and then tore off a morsel to eat. He'd seen Sydney in a similar state many times - starved, yet barely able to stomach the lightest foods - but normally this happened only after close communion with the gods, such that they spoke through him or he received divine revelation. If he'd been recently given a prophesy, however, he had not told Hardin.

It could not be said that they'd spoken much at all recently, of course, so after watching Sydney pick at his food some more, Hardin finished his half of the roll and then spoke quietly. "Have the gods shown you something?"

Sydney glanced up, his eyes revealing nothing. "I'd thought it was you who was to relate what you have learned, not I."

Hardin's eyes narrowed, his irritation with Sydney's behavior returning easily. "Mocking makes it no less obvious that you've been troubled."

Sydney said nothing, merely watching Hardin as if he were waiting. Hardin, knowing what he was likely waiting for, stifled a sigh and began to tell Sydney of what their scouts and patrols had learned. He had intended to come on business, after all; there was no sense regretting it if that was all it was.

He could not pretend that it had escaped his notice that Sydney wasn't listening as closely as he normally would have. The mage seemed to be only half there listening to Hardin's report, while the other half was elsewhere, listening to something unrelated. He _was_ listening, though, because once Hardin had finished speaking, he asked, "What would you advise?"

"About the knights? I would like to take the matter of the Blades' intrusion upon myself for a time. Now that Kermiak has returned, he might work with the men I've been training while I keep watch on the entrance to the cellar. Perhaps I will overhear something useful - and I should be safe enough on my own, as I can scrye while keeping my distance, and lock the way behind me with sigils should I be discovered."

Sydney nodded. "About Kermiak, and his observations... the animals may know more than we expect. You spoke of some among the women who wanted to return to fight alongside the men - I expect that Branla was among them."

The implication was clear without Sydney having to finish - the young woman's Talent allowed her to speak to animals. "Yes - Morrison reported that she was quite insistent about returning to serve you in Leá Monde. Shall I send word with the next rotation that she should return with the last?"

"She, and Emma also. They were both powerful enough in the Dark that they need little protection, and should be of use to us," Sydney replied. "Do you have any further advice to offer?"

...Hardin couldn't help himself. "I would advise you to get a good night's sleep in your own bed as soon as we are finished discussing Müllenkamp's plans," he muttered, knowing already that Sydney would not like this response, but looking him in the eye nonetheless. "I couldn't say if it's a glamour you adopt for others, or simply a unique lack of faith on my part when it comes to your invulnerability, but even if I am the only one who notices how exhausted you look - you do."

Sydney's returning gaze was cool, and Hardin waited, expecting it to turn icy. Instead, Sydney spoke quite calmly. "Will you not admonish me to eat more of my dinner first?"

Hardin wondered if he were mocking, teasing, or... he wasn't sure what else. "If I believed that it would do any good, I would." The honest answer was a good enough response to whatever angle Sydney might be taking.

Fortunately, Sydney just glanced back down at the plate, and at the roll he'd hardly touched. "I'd thought to try. Perhaps sleep will be easier."

Hardin's resentment began to melt away as quickly as it had come; Sydney was just... complicated, and couldn't help himself sometimes. The admission that he was at least _trying_ was almost certainly difficult to make. Hardin nodded, and began to rise. "Shall I go elsewhere, then, and leave you in peace?"

"If you wish," Sydney replied, "but it is not necessary. Your presence does not disturb my slumber."

Of course not. Hardin knew better than anyone that what most disturbed Sydney's slumber was the sleeping itself - and that it was the presence of another which most often brought peace. They could both benefit from some peace, Hardin thought, offering Sydney his hand. He wasn't surprised when Sydney didn't take it, but stood by himself. He'd made too many concessions to weakness already, and would make no more.

Perhaps that stubborn pride was what caused him to turn his head away when Hardin lay down beside him, after stripping them both of their clothes. It didn't matter to Hardin, and he placed an arm across Sydney's chest regardless. What was important was that they both slept.

It would have been simple enough for Hardin, had it not been so difficult for Sydney. Sydney was restless, tossing and turning, and before long Hardin had removed his arm just to give Sydney more room to move freely. It didn't seem to help much - Sydney still was unable to settle in one position. No wonder he'd not come to bed recently.

Due to his rising early, working the men hard, and fretting over Sydney every time he had a spare moment to do so, Hardin was tired enough that even Sydney's restlessness beside him wasn't enough to completely prevent him from dozing. Only half awake, a sigh of frustration still registered, even muffled in the pillows as it was. Without conscious thought, Hardin placed a hand on Sydney's lower back, rubbing softly.

Sydney quieted for a time under the gentle touch, and Hardin drifted off further, until Sydney shifted again. This time, when Hardin tried to remove his hand, the touch of Sydney's fingers on his wrist caused him to wake somewhat - more so when Sydney settled again on his back, and lowered Hardin's hand to touch somewhere else.

...Oh. That might well exhaust Sydney enough that he could sleep, Hardin supposed, and he rubbed his eyes with his other hand, forcing himself to wake up. It helped when he pushed himself upright, kneeling over Sydney, then bending over him as Sydney urged him to, carefully and skillfully tugging him downward with his dangerous hands.

The restraint Sydney showed, merely pressing and pricking against his skin instead of cutting and biting, was such a phenomenal way to tease that Hardin could scarcely stand it. _This_ was how things should be, how they had once been, before... _something_ had changed. Many nights had begun this way, and had not ended without Sydney gripping Hardin's shoulders firmly, his fingers carving shallow red grooves, and rolling them both over to pin Hardin against the mattress.

This was not to be tonight, however; tonight, Sydney remained on his back, never prompting Hardin for more than his hands and his mouth. Hardin was certain he had nothing to complain about, for he was enjoying himself - but afterwards, as he lay with his head on Sydney's stomach, feeling the breathing slow to normality and then the deeper rhythm of slumber almost without pause, he had to admit that he felt a bit disappointed, or at least unfulfilled. At least Sydney slept, at last - at least Hardin could give him what he needed.

And Sydney _did_ sleep, Hardin saw as he watched from above with the Sight. So often, Sydney's expression was solemn or pained as he slept, the world's end unfolding itself layer by layer in visions that left him weeping as he slept. Now, he simply lay still, his face blank and still slightly flushed. There was none of his usual grace, none of his characteristic serenity. Rather than a god, he looked like an ordinary man, exhausted and helplessly unconscious, much like Hardin would soon be himself. Hardin still thought he looked beautiful.

It was only a passing thought before he joined Sydney in sleep - he'd never asked about the matter of his successor.


	3. Chapter 3

The Dark never showed him the man's face, no matter how frequent the dreams. The sword was clear, yes, but the Dark saw things much as the gods saw them, and that included people. There was a sense of great strength, and skillful movement, but those were the only hints as to the man's outward appearance, as the Dark cared nothing for that. Sydney knew that he sheltered important secrets, hidden so deep that even he himself did not know, and that his soul was... detached, in a sense, such that he simply did what needed to be done, without personal conflict or regret. He was complex, multi-layered, but above all else he was competent. Otherwise, the Dark would not have shown him to Sydney.

It was frustrating that the Dark would not show him something that he could know to look out for. Flashes of his soul, of a swordhand that had an immediate, intimate knowledge of any weapon it touched, were not things which Sydney could spot in advance. He could pray for clearer images as the time approached, and occasionally he had received a glimpse of shadowed eyes or a sleek, muscled back - but these were not much better. The Lady, last time she had come, had told him with a laugh that some had not even known in advance that such a person existed. The fact that he had the assurance of knowing the person when the time arrived was, she claimed, a luxury.

Even so, he prayed, often as he did now, in the ruins of the old temple in the center of the city, where the Dark ran strongest. Although he had to concede that Hardin was right - he did feel much better after having slept, and even had managed a bit of the previous night's fruit before leaving the bedroom - even then, he could feel the hourglass draining. The prophecies were beginning to be fulfilled. They didn't have much longer.

The sword flashed in the light, drawn in an arc by a steady hand. Muscles flexed, and steadied...

Sydney!

He sat up abruptly, startled at the frantic cry and the sudden sense of pain that accompanied it. Not terrible pain - it was not yet time for that vision - but something unexpected and swift.

Sydney rose to his feet, and then vanished.  


* * *

Perhaps his suggestion of what to do about the Blades' intrusion had been less than ideal, Hardin thought. Less than ideal in many ways.

A few days past, he would have been grateful for an excuse to keep his distance from Sydney. After the events of the previous night, he was somewhat more worried - but also somewhat more hopeful. It was a combination that left him more reluctant to leave Sydney's side, though he was still grateful that he would not have to face the curiosity of everyone who had seen them the previous night at dinner. The task of keeping watch over a passageway which very few knew of, on the other hand, left him far too much time to think the matter over.

To make matters worse... Hardin had grown accustomed to the underground tunnels and caverns beneath Leá Monde, seeing as it was often a quicker way to get around the city than trying to pick out a way through the broken streets and buildings above ground. He'd never been fond of spending much time below ground, though, a fact which he'd forgotten when he volunteered for this task. It was impossible to forget, now that he was stationed just inside the wine cellar, alone with little to do but wait and sternly remind himself that this time he could leave whenever he wished.

It helped that his task was to scrye, and his focus was to be on an area far less reminiscent of his old prison cell. Not far away was the staircase that led above ground, to the mainland across the channel from Leá Monde. There, the colors were vivid in the bright sunlight, and he could look out to sea, all the way to the horizon. A part of him stood there on the hill, nothing more than a ghost to ordinary men, watching the waves and admiring the trees, steadfastly trying to ignore the fact that his body remained in a small, roughly-cut stone chamber lit only by dim torchlight.

Perhaps fortunately, he didn't have to wait long before something happened.

He'd nearly forgotten, at that point in the afternoon, that he was _not_ physically on the hill. He was therefore a bit startled when, upon turning at the sound of approaching footsteps, a man walked right past him without pause. He did stop at the top of the staircase, and Hardin followed to find him regarding it with a thoughtful expression. "Hmm..."

The man did not look like one of the cardinal's knights. He wore none of their armor or insignias - in fact, no insignia whatsoever, though he did wear minimal armor and a sword. The way he moved told Hardin that he was quite accustomed to having it there.

Everything else about the man said that he was no knight. The piercing in his lip, for one thing, and... it wasn't as if Hardin had never seen a cold, calculating expression in the eyes of one of the cardinal's men, but this man wore it differently, without a hint of virtue. Already Hardin was certain that he did not like the newcomer.

The man considered the staircase for a few moments longer, then shrugged and began to descend. "Down we go, I suppose," he murmured to himself, and Hardin once more followed, invisible and silent.

At the bottom of the stairs, the man took only a quick glance around before heading straight for the small metal gate that marked the way into the cellar proper. He seemed to have no uncertainties as to where he was going, Hardin observed, and a great deal of confidence, for not only did the man not hesitate before entering into the path that would take him into a city long rumored to be crawling with evil creatures - he even closed the gate behind him.

Hardin's eyes narrowed as the man hummed idly to himself, picking his way over the broken flooring and around fallen rubble as if unconcerned. Either this man believed he had nothing to fear from Leá Monde, or he did not intend to leave anytime soon. A particularly foolhardy thief, perhaps, after the valuable wine that had been buried in this tunnel after the earthquake? A skeptic determined to see for himself, to prove the superstitious wrong? Perhaps mad - seeking his death in a more creative way than the usual methods...

Whatever brought the man to seek out Leá Monde, he wasn't especially fazed by the large bats that abruptly swooped low over his head, annoyed at their slumber having been interrupted. He merely cursed, momentarily startled, and brought up his sword to slash at them. When they flapped away, screaming and wounded, to another chamber, he looked after them and then replaced his sword in its scabbard. "...Hmph."

The man continued on his way, unwittingly shadowed by Hardin, who recognized that very soon they would come to the room where Hardin had positioned himself for the surveillance. Ending his scrying, he physically got to his feet and readied his sword. He'd not intended to challenge any intruders, only slow them down, which was why he'd come alone - but this was not the sort of intruder he'd expected to enter the cellar. If it had been the Blades, their motivation would have been obvious; since it was not, Hardin wanted to know why he had come well before he managed to get to the city. And preferably ensure that he would not return. Something about the man left him extremely wary.

Flattened against the wall beside the door, Hardin listened to the footsteps as they approached, and tensed to move as the latch clicked. An instant after the man had stepped through the doorway, Hardin had the man's swordarm pinned to his side, and Hardin's sword was at his throat. "Why have you come?" Hardin growled in his ear.

To his surprise, the man somehow twisted and slipped from his grasp, drawing his sword and backhanding Hardin across the face in a single motion, and turning to look Hardin in the eye. This was not an ordinary thief - nor was he on the level of most of the Blades. No, he was much better, Hardin realized in alarm as the man whirled his sword and charged.

Hardin was also better than most, however, and blocked instinctively as he cast a simple degenerative spell on his opponent. Feeling the magic wash over him, the man's eyes widened, and he backed up a few steps. "Hold!" he exclaimed. "You're... one of Sydney's, aren't you?"

Hardin remained in a defensive stance, regarding the man with suspicion. "And whose are you?"

Evidently that was close enough to an affirmative answer, for the man lowered his sword and began to place it back in the scabbard. "I'm my own, at the moment, but I'd been considering changing that. I've heard of a prophet who performs true miracles... and I would very much like to meet him."

"So you shall," spoke a voice from the shadows, and Hardin breathed a relieved breath as Sydney stepped forward. "You've taken a great risk, coming here," he continued, coming to stand beside Hardin, who finally lowered his sword. Was it Hardin's imagination, or did the man's eyes widen strangely at his words for some reason? "Have you not heard the tales?"

"I have - of both the creatures of Leá Monde and the prophet said to walk its haunted streets, and this is why I've come. Sydney Losstarot..." he said slowly, with a wondering look. "You could be none other..."

"You place yourself in danger, attempting to enter the city without notice," Sydney observed, regarding the man shrewdly. "Not only from the Dark and the creatures that there dwell, but from my followers. We've been having a certain number of unwelcome visitors of late; my second, Hardin, might have slain you had he believed you were one of their number."

"Quite understandable," the man said with a nod. "No harm done, now - Hardin, is it?" he added, turning to Hardin and taking a step forward to extend his hand. "My apologies for surprising you."

Hardin still was quite sure that he did not like the man, but he grudgingly accepted. "As you said, no harm done. And you are...?" he inquired. The fact that the man still hadn't given his name didn't make Hardin any more inclined to like him.

"Rosencrantz - Jan Rosencrantz. A pleasure, meeting the both of you." Hardin had the feeling that the curious way in which Rosencrantz was regarding him was the same way he'd regarded the stairs down into the cellar. He didn't like that one bit.

"Indeed," said Sydney, sounding vaguely skeptical in his agreement. "Now that introductions have been made - Hardin, go on ahead, back to the city. I'd like to speak to our new visitor alone for a moment."

"Of course," Hardin agreed gruffly. He didn't like the idea of leaving Sydney alone with a stranger, particularly not one who made him feel so uneasy. When he glanced at Sydney, wondering what insight his talent for reading hearts might have offered, he found that Sydney's expression was far too neutral. Well then - so Sydney was wary as well.

He obeyed nonetheless, casting another glance over his shoulder as he left. He may contradict Sydney in private, but before others? He would not dare question Sydney's authority.  


* * *

Sydney considered the man in silence for a bit longer after Hardin had gone. Very strange, this Jan Rosencrantz. One thing in particular...

"You've already been touched by the Dark," he observed.

"Yes, yes, I have," Rosencrantz acknowledged with a brief, polite nod of his head. "You truly are a seer, as they told me."

Sydney ignored the obvious flattery. "How did this come to pass?"

"Ah, but as you are a seer," Rosencrantz suggested cheerfully, "you must be able to read the story in my heart, can you not?"

"I would like to hear the story as you would tell it, rather than as the Dark would tell it," Sydney stated. "Seeing as you've come unannounced into our city, I suggest that you obey."

Rosencrantz's face fell slightly, taken aback, but he did so. "Very well - I had thought to pass along the information as a gesture of good faith anyhow, if you had not already been made aware. ...There are other pools from which the Dark flows, through which one may be baptized into its power. None so powerful as Leá Monde, but the cardinal has been making use of them, for his men."

Sydney nodded; he'd suspected as much. However... "You are not one of the cardinal's men."

"No, but I spent some time among them," Rosencrantz explained. "While working for the VKP, who were curious as to what had the Crimson Blades behaving so oddly."

"And the cardinal allowed a relative newcomer, one untested, who had taken no vows, to partake of this secret - a secret which would destroy him and his church if word was to get out."

This pointed skepticism had the desired effect, for Rosencrantz licked his lips, looking suddenly sheepish. "Well, not... _allowed_ , as such, no..."

"I see." Did this fool have any idea, Sydney wondered, what he'd been meddling with, and what could have happened? Or perhaps he was no fool at all. That was an even more disconcerting thought. Particularly because...

"Fight fire with fire, I say," Rosencrantz was saying. "I had done my research - I know that the power they wield is not the _true_ power, but it is dangerous if misused even so, and they _will_ misuse it. That is why I came to seek you, Sydney - the true power of the Dark, the power they seek, is here in Leá Monde, among you and your followers."

Sydney pondered a few moments longer, then offered the man a gentle smile. "Your tale is less muddled when spoken aloud in so many words."

Rosencrantz bowed respectfully. "If you need any further clarification, you have but to ask."

"That will not be necessary," Sydney assured him. "Not for the time being. Come now - as it seems you are to be our guest, I will show you to Leá Monde."

"Excellent - not many have walked her streets since the great quake. I feel privileged to be one of the few so honored."

"If you continue to show such respect for her," said Sydney, as Rosencrantz fell into step close behind him, "I expect that she shall show you her finest."

Though their lot was often considered eccentric, or at the least unusual, Sydney found Rosencrantz to be especially strange. Despite the man's flattering words, and the fact that his story added up with what Sydney sensed of him, Sydney didn't trust him in the slightest, and for several reasons.

First and foremost was the fact that although Sydney could clearly feel the flow of the Dark all about him, swirling and swarming - it didn't seem to touch him at all. The most disconcerting result of this by far was that this meant Sydney could not read his heart. This had many implications, few of which had anything positive to be said about them. On the other hand, the ones that did...

It was unlikely, Sydney reminded himself. He had the strength, the speed, the sure skill - he could see it in the way Rosencrantz moved, and in the lines of his body. But if that was all that mattered, it could have been Hardin, or a few others among their number. One thing none of them had was the sword.

Rosencrantz was somehow... unique, however. Whether this proved to be a good thing or a bad thing remained to be seen.

Keeping that in mind, Sydney only took him in as far as the first magic circle inscribed in the ruins, rather than showing the man the entire route. It wouldn't do for Rosencrantz to be able to run off before Sydney had a chance to puzzle him out.

One mystery was answered when Sydney used a teleportation spell to send the two of them instantly to the keep. So he _could_ be touched by magic... though another mystery deepened. What made the difference?


	4. Chapter 4

Even after some time had passed, Hardin found that he liked Jan Rosencrantz no better than he had at their first meeting. In fact, he might like the man even less.

It wasn't that he was unpleasant in any terribly obvious way, exactly. He worked with the brethren in their daily tasks, and was extremely respectful towards Sydney. Not patronizingly so - he was not above asking questions, and often did so, not just with Sydney but with anyone. And there were plenty of people for him to ask questions of, thanks to an easy-going demeanor. Many of the brethren took to him easily enough, as he shared their burdens, and Sydney seemed to find him quite interesting besides. That was possibly what irritated Hardin the most - that Sydney seemed intrigued by Rosencrantz, while continuing to be largely indifferent to him. Not that this was the fault of Rosencrantz, but the questions he asked therefore caused Hardin to dislike the man even more.

He'd cornered Hardin in the courtyard a few days after his arrival, intent on getting the whole story. "So - John Hardin, Sydney's second-in-command, the weaponsmaster and tactical advisor," he began, interrupting the exercises Hardin had been doing nightly - watching the cellar was no way to stay active - while watching him with an appraising eye. "It's fortunate for me that Sydney interrupted our little fight, for I've no doubt that you're a very powerful man."

More flattery. Hardin was dubious. "I am what I am, no more and no less. Sydney would be a better judge of such things as power."

"Yes, and he's given you a great deal of responsibility. He wouldn't entrust you with the lives of his followers, were you not worthy. Even if it's true what they say about you being Sydney's favorite lover."

Hardin gave him a sharp look. "No offense meant," Rosencrantz added quickly, holding up his hands in a show of innocence. "I would not judge over such a thing, and as I said, it is apparent that there is more to it than that. More apparent of late, they tell me, for you retain your position even though the two of you have... had some sort of falling-out? The brethren seemed not to know for certain, but they are curious. As am I, as you can see."

"The brethren," Hardin began sternly, "know even less than they believe they do. I would advise you to put no stock in rumors."

"Ah, but rumors often bear a grain of truth," Rosencrantz pointed out. "'Twas rumor that led me to Leá Monde and to Müllenkamp, and I have yet to be disappointed. To my way of thinking, 'tis best to consider rumors as exaggeration until one goes to the source to determine the truth. Which is why I thought to ask you directly."

"There has been no disagreement between Sydney and myself," Hardin said firmly. Then, feeling strangely defensive, he added "But if you must know the truth - yes, we are lovers." He resisted the urge to tell Rosencrantz to go ask Sydney as well if he wanted confirmation, but 'lovers' was not a word Sydney was likely to use even at the best of times.

"Mmm..." Rosencrantz nodded thoughtfully. "I must say, then, that I envy you. Even if not for all of his power, Sydney is a remarkable man. Beautiful, and possessed of a quick wit and a very sharp tongue."

"...Yes." Why was Hardin not the slightest bit surprised that Rosencrantz's tastes might run that way?

"And then there's the other rumor I'd meant to ask you about," Rosencrantz continued, "for there seemed to be some confusion. Some say you have been chosen as Sydney's successor, and others tell me you've clearly denied it."

This again? Hardin shook his head. "Again, you put too much stock in rumors. I could not clearly deny it, for I have never been told that it was _not_ so - but Sydney has never told me that I have any such distinction, and I'm certain he would have told me if it were so." Reasonably certain, anyhow.

"Aha, I see," Rosencrantz said with a nod. "If you say this is how it is, then this is how it is. But out of curiosity, then," he added, tilting his head inquisitively, "has he chosen a successor at all?"

Hardin did not like this line of questioning. "I don't see any need for choosing a successor anytime soon. Did you not know that Sydney is immortal?"

"Of course - that rumor has made its way throughout the land. And as there was truth in this, the most unlikely of rumors, I can't help but wonder about the rest. But you know," he mused, "from what I've heard thus far, there have been others in his position in the past - and yet, where are they now? Though they may once have been immortal, they each passed this immortality on to another and went on to the next world. I would assume that Sydney will one day do the same - but I expect it would be quite rude to ask him personally."

It was something Hardin had wondered about from time to time, given that he himself was _not_ immortal. If things went on as they were, someday he would die and Sydney would live on. It made him worry, for if it were the other way around - if Sydney died and he must live on without him...

"And granted, I certainly do not know Sydney as you do," Rosencrantz went on to say, "but I was surprised upon meeting him - he looks so much more delicate than I had expected. And I've yet to see him take a meal, and I've found him awake at all hours. I'd wondered if he might be ill..."

In a way, Hardin felt that he should be relieved that there was another who could relate to his own concerns for Sydney's wellbeing. Not this way, however - not when it was a suspicious person who had joined them only a few days past, and particularly when said person had none-too-subtly expressed an interest in Sydney, and then made inquiries as to the nature of their relationship, on top of it. And where, Hardin wondered, was Rosencrantz coming across Sydney 'at all hours'?

"The Dark corrupts the flesh," he stated, repeating an explanation Sydney had given him long ago, "and Sydney handles more than a mortal body could withstand. At times, it still affects him - as he is still a man, with a man's body. If you had thought that such power as his has no price, or that it is something I might covet, you would be wrong."

Rosencrantz raised an eyebrow in surprise, and let out a slightly nervous laugh. "Oh, no - I'd not meant to suggest any such thing, Forgive my questioning, Hardin - I'm afraid I can't help it. 'Tis in my nature to be curious."

"And it is in my nature," Hardin replied, "as well as a part of my duty here, to be suspicious of newcomers who ask an abnormally high number of questions about our doings, and in particular Sydney's. You'll forgive me as well, of course."

"...Mm-hmm..." Rosencrantz did not look at all certain about this, but that was fine with Hardin. "I apologize, then. I will try to rein in my curiosity."

Curiosity... was not in itself a crime, Hardin had to admit. "...As do I apologize, if I have been overzealous. Anything you have any business knowing will be revealed in time, and I suggest that such sensitive questions be directed at Sydney. He is far better equipped to handle them than I, as I am a military leader rather than a spiritual guide." And because Sydney could discern people's motivations without any trouble whatsoever - if Rosencrantz was less innocent in his questioning than he claimed, Sydney would know.

"Yes, I suppose. I feel I've taken too much of your time tonight," Rosencrantz observed, "so I shall be on my way now. I do thank you for answering my questions, impudent as they may have been."

Hardin had replied with simply a nod; the man talked enough for both of them.

Not so much to Hardin, after that conversation, though he continued to be polite when they crossed paths. He merely found others to ask questions of, most of whom were more willing to provide answers. Hardin thought that it was fortunate that none but himself and Sydney knew many of their secrets.

Sydney too spoke to Rosencrantz often and seemingly without much reservation, on the occasions when Hardin happened to spot the two of them together, which were too frequent for his liking. It didn't take long for Hardin to determine that the man had come to them already touched by the Dark, though Hardin still had no idea how; it explained why Sydney spent time with him, alone. When Hardin had first been so touched, unexpectedly, Sydney had set aside much time for intense training in the basics of channeling and controlling the Dark. Leaving one untrained who could wield that power was dangerous, and so Sydney must be doing the same with Rosencrantz. Nothing to be jealous of, certainly nothing to be wary about. Certainly, with his talent, Sydney would have seen any threat in the man's heart long ago and sent him away. That should have been good enough for Hardin.

Somehow, it was not.  


* * *

Some philosopher had once said that a man's dreams are a mystery even to himself, and that one cannot realize the terror of another's nightmare. Sydney had always found this to be quite true, and it came to mind once again as he pondered the odd tangle of memory and fear and longing. It was a dream of no consequence, one that would vanish upon waking - which would not happen until Sydney released the spell he'd cast - but the Dark now showed it to him, and so he would make use of it the best he could.

He'd been carefully testing Rosencrantz and his strange invulnerability over the past weeks, under the guise of testing what he already knew of the Dark - which was more than he should have known, by far, which was also worrisome. There were places within the city where Sydney's power could overwhelm the other man's barriers, which was useful enough to know... and Sydney's research showed that it could simply be a very rare gift, the talent to render oneself immune to the Dark. This meant that in all likelihood, the subject had to will it to shield him - which in turn meant that at certain times, such as when the subject was asleep, he was unable to guard himself. It was not so useful, reading a man's heart while he dreamt, but Sydney had to see if it could be done. He had not been disappointed.

In the cacophony of image and sound and feel and shape, Sydney caught a glimpse of a man, dressed in the armor of one of the cardinal's knights. Grasping hold of this thread, he followed it deeper through the chaos, to a memory. Yes, Rosencrantz _had_ spent time among the Blades, though he was not one of them - they had met largely in taverns and alleyways, exchanging information for information. Tied to that memory was another, descending a staircase into an empty room, holding a newly bloodied sword. He drew the blade across his own palm, lifted his hand high, and felt _something_ descending upon him. That something, seen in Rosencrantz's memory, had been unfamiliar and frightening - but was quite familiar to Sydney, who had first felt it when he was a small child.

Then there was another memory - a man with a stern, disapproving face. Affiliated with... Parliament, from the emblem upon his shoulder. For some reason, Sydney could feel the Dark beginning to laugh silently in delight...

There was another emblem, one which Sydney did not recognize, but before long the memory tumbled back further, this time to a field by a stream on a clear day. It would have seemed a scene from a child's tale, so idyllic it was, had it not been for the corpses that lay at the foot of a nearby tree. There was another man present...

And the Dark, which had been dancing and whirling, seemed to erupt with excitement.

Wide-eyed, Sydney let go at once, unwilling to risk losing control of the Dark, and stared at the sleeping man before him as the Dark gamboled merrily about them both. He had indeed been able to read Rosencrantz's heart as he slept, and had managed to find morsels of the truth. In that regard, he'd found precisely what he wanted.

What he had _not_ expected to find, however, was this.

While he stood there, pondering, he unexpectedly saw Rosencrantz stir; in his surprise he'd forgotten that the spell keeping him asleep had been broken. There was not much he could do, not so quickly...

Dark eyes opened, and Rosencrantz blinked, bringing Sydney into focus. In the moment before he was self-aware enough to close off his heart again, Sydney felt his fear, his surprise, and...

Rosencrantz smiled, very slowly, as he looked up at Sydney. "My, my... I know I should not jump to conclusions, but I must say - if you were looking to find some company for the night..."

"Let us not get ahead of ourselves," Sydney replied, smiling back slightly. Of course he'd prepared an excuse, just in case. "It is a clear night over Leá Monde - I'd thought to show you something, if you happened to be awake. I apologize for disturbing you."

"You've disturbed nothing - I'd not managed to find a dream yet." Rosencrantz sat up, pushing aside the sheets. "What is it that you wanted to show me?"

"Patience, Rosencrantz. I'd like to see if you can search it out on your own..." So the Dark did indeed affect him while he was asleep or otherwise was not capable of consciously blocking it, Sydney thought, reviewing it in his head.

The memories told Sydney that Rosencrantz almost certainly had been telling him the truth, or something close to it, at their first meeting, even though he had strengthened himself against the Dark - which implied either that Rosencrantz believed Sydney could read his heart regardless, or that he was uncertain. Either way, there was something he wanted to hide. Just as Sydney had thought, he was right not to trust Rosencrantz with much, for he'd played the double agent before, and may do so again. In fact, that gave Sydney an interesting idea...

Most interesting of all, Sydney had learned with certainty that Rosencrantz was not the one the Dark had chosen - but that Rosencrantz knew the man of whom he dreamed.


	5. Chapter 5

"Do you recognize this insignia?"

This had not been uncommon in the early days of their partnership; Sydney had never been a soldier, and although he knew the marks for many of the forces which had traditionally pursued Müllenkamp throughout the years, there were some variations he was not aware of and some he'd never encountered before. Hardin knew far more, as well as how to tell the ranks among most of the valid military forces, and so it was usually his task to identify precisely who and what they were dealing with. He might have been disappointed that this was why he'd been summoned to the bedroom after dinner, if he'd had any reason to get his hopes up.

As it was, he peered at the scrap of paper Sydney held, marked with a careful recreation in ink. Hardin's eyes widened when he recalled the obscure symbol. "...The Riskbreakers. Why...?"

"Riskbreakers, you say?" Sydney mused. "Explain."

This was not a good omen. "The Riskbreakers are a special unit - it's no surprise that you would not know them. They operate primarily in secret, taking the most dangerous missions, knowing they may not return. The VKP oversees them, and uses them as spies, assassins, silent soldiers... Where did you see this, Sydney?"

"In a dream," Sydney replied simply, tucking the paper away within the stack of assorted documents at the center of the table where they sat.

"Has Duke Bardorba betrayed us, then? Did he not agree to keep Parliament and their men at bay?"

"The dream was not mine," Sydney explained, his gaze distant and thoughtful as he drummed his fingers lightly on the table, not quite gouging the wood. "It belonged to our dear Rosencrantz. I believe he may be one of these Riskbreakers. Or perhaps he may have been, once."

Rosencrantz, a Riskbreaker? And Hardin had gone against him, man to man, he remembered with abrupt shock - no wonder Rosencrantz had shaken him off so easily. Hardin was more than adequate with a sword, but against a Riskbreaker...! "He's been sent to spy on us, then?"

Sydney shook his head. "It is possible, but even if it is so, I believe he has little regard for the will of the VKP."

"What do you mean by this?"

"I am saying that as far as I can tell, Rosencrantz is... not _loyal_ to us, precisely," Sydney said thoughtfully, searching for the appropriate word. "But he seems _focused_ , which is as close as his kind can come."

This would have been enough for Hardin to let the matter drop, had not the wording been extremely unusual for Sydney. "'Seems' focused, you say? And 'you believe' he is not acting on orders from the VKP? Would you not know?"

Sydney offered a small, helpless shrug, with such a wry smile that it did not seem helpless at all. "I am unable to read his heart. ...Come now, Hardin - there is no need for such anxiety," Sydney admonished him before he'd managed to put his thoughts in order to make a coherent protest. "I've ways to get around this curious little problem. And besides - few can read hearts even under normal circumstances. Am I then blind if I can no longer make use of this ability?"

"No, of course not..." This was true, but Hardin was still uneasy.

"Trust in me, Hardin," Sydney told him, soft but firm. "You know I would take no chances with the lives of our brethren, nor would I turn my back on the task which the gods have assigned to me."

"I know, Sydney," Hardin assured him, quickly. "I could never doubt your motives. But..."

"But my judgment may not be so flawless, is that it?" Sydney smirked slightly. "You are the only one who would dare to say so. But you know as well as any other that I am no fool."

Hardin shook his head. This was all true...

Sydney stood suddenly, his boots clicking on the stone floor as he moved to stand beside Hardin's seat. His arms dropped over Hardin's shoulders in a light embrace, with the claws positioned dangerously - enticingly - close to his throat. Hardin could hear the knowing smile in his voice without having to scrye. "Forget not who I am, dear Hardin. All will be put in order, in time."

Once, Hardin would have relaxed into the touch, even if the words did not wholly ease his concerns. He'd wished for more of this, even recently, but when it came in the middle of a conversation that was on the verge of becoming an argument, it seemed more patronizing than reassuring. Coersion, rather than encouragement. It was as if he were only bothering to show signs of affection when he stood to gain something from it - not that this was any significant change from his recent behavior. It vaguely annoyed him.

Sydney must have heard the thought, because he sighed softly and let go, stepping back. "...What would you have me do then, Hardin? What would you not consider an attempt at coersion?"

If not for the edge of exasperation in his voice, Hardin might have apologized. As it was... Hardin had to admit that it was an excellent question. At such a time, when he was already suspicious of Sydney's motives, any affection Sydney showed him would seem to be nothing more than indulgence, appeasement. Any affection at all would be suspect, except...

"...I could not say," Hardin said brusquely, and stood to leave, closing the door firmly behind him.

There were, Hardin thought as he stalked away through the halls of the keep, things that Sydney could do now to prove that he was not simply being manipulative. He'd thought for a moment that it might be enough for Sydney to humble himself enough to say the words he had long refused, but Sydney knew better than anyone but himself that words were only words. Sydney would say anything to anyone if the need outweighed the truth or his own dignity.

However, now that the moment was past, there was no need at all. If Sydney came after him, if he pursued the matter further when it held no immediate benefit...

Hardin headed for the armory, to take up his broadsword; going through his forms would be suited to his current mood, as he felt very much like fighting something he could not see. Slightly alarmed by Hardin's grim countenance, his determined gait, and the fact that he was wearing his sword and heading for the city, Gwynn stopped him on his way back out through the courtyard to ask if something had happened. Hardin answered in the negative, and very briefly. When Gwynn had risen to call after him, Hardin had looked back to see that he'd been sitting beside Rosencrantz.

It was out into the town center then for Hardin, to find a quiet place to practice where he would not be disturbed, save by Sydney himself, who could find him if he chose. Hardin stayed there, atop one of the upper walkways, practicing until late in the evening, but Sydney did not so choose.

As Sydney had not come to him, he did not feel much like going to Sydney. Instead of returning to the bedroom, regardless of whether Sydney was there that night or not, Hardin sought sleep in the common barracks, sneaking in late at night to avoid questions from the majority of the brethren, and avoiding the questions of any who might follow by immediately feigning sleep. Once or twice he was vaguely aware of footsteps pausing as a latecomer stopped to regard his unusual presence, but he lay still until they'd passed.

He supposed this meant more rumors. Well, so be it. If anyone asked, he'd tell them that he'd had trouble sleeping, and didn't want to disturb Sydney. For all he or anyone else knew, given how secretive Sydney had become, he very well could have turned in early.

Apparently, Hardin determined later, he had not.

He woke sometime very late in the night to the sound of familiar footfalls, muffled though they were by boots of soft leather - Sydney's usual attire when he was trying to minimize the sounds of his passing. Though Hardin waited, wondering, the footsteps did not approach the bed where he lay, but came to a halt some distance away. Hardin listened, but heard nothing for a long time. He decided to open his eyes.

Sydney stood over a bed at the corner of the large room, a slim black silohuette in the dim lamplight from where Hardin lay. He did not seem to be doing anything at all, but Hardin resisted the urge to look closer with the Sight - no doubt Sydney would know, and he would block Hardin at once, possibly become angry.

But then, the worst that could happen, Hardin thought, was the same thing that had happened already many times over. He began his scrying, invisibly walking up behind Sydney. Nothing happened, so he looked.

Rosencrantz lay in the bed, sprawled lazily and comfortably beneath the sheets, fast asleep. Hardin found that he looked almost like a different person without the guarded, calculating gaze the man perpetually wore when awake. Sydney was watching him, unmoving aside from the subtle shift of his breathing, but Hardin couldn't guess at his motive. He did not dare scrye Sydney's face; he suspected that showing too much attention to Sydney in particular might make it more likely that he would attract Sydney's attention in turn, and he would be found out.

Nothing happened, nothing changed, though time continued to pass. At last, all of a sudden, Sydney drew a deep breath and put a hand to his head as if dizzy. Hardin frowned - puzzled and vaguely worried - but before he could decide whether or not to reveal himself, Rosencrantz opened his eyes at the quiet sound. Fortunately for him, the first expression to cross his face after the initial surprise was a look of concern. "Sydney!" Rosencrantz murmured, sitting up in a swift motion as if he might need to catch him. "Is something the matter?"

"Do not trouble yourself," Sydney mumbled, pulling himself together enough to stand straight again. "At times, the Dark can... become mischievous."

"Ah... Hardin said something to that effect once." Rosencrantz settled back, relaxing somewhat, but still looked wary. If it had been someone other than Rosencrantz, Hardin would have been pleased with his diligence. "That the Dark can be a painful burden, one he did not envy."

"I would expect not. He's had more than enough trouble in this life as it is." Why, Hardin wondered, could Sydney not sound sympathetic when they were in each other's presence?

"As have all who stand against the ruling parties' tyranny," Rosencrantz agreed with a small nod. "'Tis a shame that this burden must be borne by one alone."

"It is temporary, as you had guessed, and not without its rewards," Sydney pointed out. "However, if we are to speak of such things, we ought not to do so here, while those around us seek rest. Let us go to my own room, where we can speak freely."

Rosencrantz looked slightly puzzled. "I had thought that Hardin shared your bed..." _Liar!_ Hardin thought, with a sudden surge of indignance. He was nearly certain that Rosencrantz had been one of those who had entered late, and paused to puzzle over his presence in the barracks.

Sydney shook his head. "Tonight he seems to have bedded elsewhere." And not far away at all, Hardin thought with growing irritation. If Sydney had bothered to look around, instead of going straight to Rosencrantz...

"...I'm sorry to hear it," Rosencrantz said, in a show of bewilderment.

"There is no need for that," Sydney assured him, and Hardin stopped scrying for the moment, for now Sydney was turning to go. From where he lay, Hardin could still just barely make out his words. "I shan't be spending the night alone, shall I?"

"Oh, no. Of course not." Rosencrantz got to his feet nearly as quickly as he spoke. "Pray tell, Sydney - why do you summon me thus?"

"I would like some information," Sydney replied as they skirted the edge of the large room, "about some of the organizations you've worked with. In particular, the Riskbreakers."

There was a short pause. "I was a Riskbreaker, yes. Why the sudden interest?"

"I had had the thought," Sydney's answer came, barely audible as they approached the door into the hall, "that a Riskbreaker might be a worthy successor to the Keeper of the Dark."

...So _that_ was Sydney's game with the man, Hardin thought as the door closed gently behind them. There had been a moment of shock at first - he couldn't mean it! - but Hardin knew how Sydney loved to play games. Rosencrantz, who had seemed unusually interested in the subject of a future transferral of power, whose loyalties were suspect... What better way to ensure his cooperation?

And of course it _must_ be a ruse. Too many things were suspicious about the man for Sydney to decide such a thing, if there was reason to decide at all. Sydney could not be certain about anything, if he could not read Rosencrantz's heart...

...Unless, Hardin thought suddenly, the comparable power was _why_ Sydney could not read his heart.

No - it was certainly a ruse. Hardin would not think any more about it, for even if it were true, he could do nothing. There were plenty of valid reasons to be troubled by what he'd seen, besides. What had Sydney been doing, sneaking in to stare at Rosencrantz as he slept? Had he been completely unaware of what he was implying when he mentioned not being alone for the night? Or was that a part of the ruse as well? ...How far would Sydney go to ensure the man's loyalties? Rosencrantz was only one man, only one ordinary man. As far as Hardin knew.

...As far as Hardin knew, which wasn't very far at all.  


* * *

Sydney was... reasonably satisfied with the results of his conversation with Rosencrantz. The man was somewhat more nervous than he had been previously - Sydney had casually referred to many names and scenarios that had never been spoken of in words, to the point where Rosencrantz must believe that Sydney could read his heart regardless of his resistance. He would be honest from now on, Sydney thought with a secret, smug smile that never reached his face. As honest as he could possibly manage while still managing to make himself look good. Now if Rosencrantz would only give up on trying to block him... but perhaps it was a reflex.

Moreover, he seemed to have guessed correctly about one of Rosencrantz's aspirations. Ever since he'd hinted at the identity of his still-unknown successor, Rosencrantz was particularly free with names and locations. Not blatantly, of course - the man had been a trained VKP agent, and he knew better than to show too much too soon, or to assume that everything was as it seemed. This was fine. Even before Sydney had come into all his power, he had excelled at playing mind games.

Unfortunately, he'd not yet managed to manipulate their conversation in such a way that he might learn about the man under the tree - the one the Dark had loved, who was clearly important, though Sydney still had not seen his face. He'd tried a second time after scouring Rosencrantz's dreams for more information on other subjects - but once again, he'd gotten close only to be overwhelmed. Perhaps in time, Rosencrantz would chance to speak of the incident, but Sydney would have to wait. Bringing up such a specific incident would likely seem suspicious.

In the meantime, he could make use of Rosencrantz and his skill. Although he was no longer a Riskbreaker, he'd lost none of his talent or his experience. Yes - now that Sydney was sure that Rosencrantz would not lie to him, he would prove very useful indeed...

"Very well - you shall leave on the second dawn," Sydney instructed him, once Rosencrantz had agreed. "And though perhaps I should not tell a professional how to do his job, I suggest that you not play the fool as you did upon arrival in Leá Monde. They will be more forthcoming, I imagine, if you show yourself cunning."

The smile on Rosencrantz's lips died; so did the distant look in his eyes, which hardened into something more substantial and far less pleasant. "...Well then, Sydney," he began with the hint of a smirk. "If I am not to play the fool for you... you must know that I am not one who will be used by others with no compensation. I must ask - for what am I to serve you?"

Sydney gave him not even a hint, but kept his own smirk hidden. He'd expected as much. "Few receive their rewards for such work as ours in the world of the living, Rosencrantz. First, you will serve for my trust - for all others who follow me have sworn an oath. You have offered nothing to bind us together, and I sense that you will not. You chafe under such bonds."

"First, for trust," Rosencrantz agreed, and the look in his eye suddenly informed Sydney as never before that he was indeed a very dangerous man. "But that will not be the end, or so you imply. You must know what my heart desires..."

Indeed, Sydney had guessed at more than one desire - this was also not unexpected. His serene expression did not falter even once. "Once you have proven yourself... we shall see, Rosencrantz. We shall see. But yes - first for trust. Let us find what our enemies are willing to part with."

Sensing that the bargain would go no further at this time, Rosencrantz stood from the table, looking down at Sydney. "I shall surpass your expectations, Sydney," he promised with a respectful bow before turning to go.

Sydney did not watch him go, but merely listened as the footsteps receded and the door clicked shut. "...I shall _not_ surpass yours," he murmured, eyes lowered.


	6. Chapter 6

Hardin might have confronted Sydney about what he'd seen, even risking Sydney's temper, which seemed to grow shorter and shorter. He wanted to know for certain what Sydney was doing with Rosencrantz. Surely the discovery of another instance of listening in would not do much damage... assuming that Sydney hadn't known he was listening in all along, which occurred to Hardin as he kept watch on the cellar entrance. It gave him a great deal of time during which to wonder what Sydney might have been trying to get across if so, and whether or not it would be wise to ask.

He might have asked... if he could have found Sydney anywhere. The Dark could not locate him all that day, nor did Hardin happen to see him in the keep. This was not particularly unusual, what with the way Sydney had been keeping to himself, and so Hardin counted it as a fine reason not to have to make a decision. Besides, perhaps he would find out more if he spent another night in the barracks.

This time, Rosencrantz was there by the time he entered, Hardin found as he made a quick sweep of the room. Perhaps not fully asleep, but already dozing. He seemed to be sleeping more soundly by the time Hardin drifted off, and though Hardin checked now and then during bouts of restlessness, it did not seem that Sydney had visited him again. He was still there in the early hours of the morning, when Hardin grew weary of tossing and turning and decided to rise. As for Sydney, there was still no sign of him, even as Hardin headed through the tunnels to the cellar once more.

His scrying was to be put to other purposes, of course, and although he didn't expect any trouble from the Blades so early, it was calming to stand on the hill and watch the sun rising over Leá Monde beyond the bay. It was easy to see, at such times, the beauty of the legendary city.

His meditation was interrupted abruptly by the sound of a door opening - not from the hillside, but in the room where his physical body remained. He let the vision dissolve immediately, his hand at once on the hilt of his sword, as he whirled to find... Rosencrantz, entering not from the direction in which he'd been scrying, but from the tunnels that led back to the city. "My, my," the man said, shaking his head as if disappointed. "Did I manage to take you by surprise? If I'd been the Blades, you'd be dead now."

"If you'd been the Blades, you would have entered through the other door," Hardin pointed out grimly. "What business have you, that you would suddenly leave Leá Monde at dawn?"

"Hmm. Am I a prisoner, that I cannot come and go as I please?" Rosencrantz inquired. "But as it so happens, I go on orders from Sydney."

"What orders are these?"

Rosencrantz raised an eyebrow. "Oh... Did he not tell you? I had thought you were already informed, if you had not assisted him in making these plans..."

Hardin was not going to admit that he hadn't spoken to Sydney in the last day or so, so the only reply he could offer was a rather flat "No."

"Mm, well," Rosencrantz murmured, as if to himself, "perhaps he has a reason for not even letting his second know... Who am I to say? And of course, who am I to betray his confidence, repeating what he asked of me in private? I dare say you should ask him yourself. Or does he now frighten you - you who once said you were lovers?"

Hardin's eyes narrowed, and he shifted slightly as Rosencrantz stepped closer to the doorway. "...I ask again, Hardin - am I Müllenkamp's prisoner?" he asked, pausing. "Even if I were not on Sydney's business - and I would not attempt to impede anything he wants done - may I not come and go whenever I wish?"

Unfortunately, he was correct - Hardin had never heard a word from Sydney implying that he could not leave if he wished, and it _would_ be unwise to stand in the way of anything Sydney wanted done. Hardin reluctantly gave Rosencrantz a nod, standing aside. Rosencrantz gave him a smile in return, and strode past him through the doorway.

Well then, Hardin thought cynically. Now he had a perfectly good excuse to find Sydney and ask what he had planned for Rosencrantz.  


* * *

To his surprise, he found Sydney in his room - their room? - when he returned early in the evening and looked with the Sight just on the chance he might be present. The first glimpse told him at once why he hadn't been able to find Sydney the day before; dressed in a loose robe, he was slumped in a chair at their table, shakily propping his head up with one hand as he sipped at a cup of water. From all appearances, he would have seemed weak if not for his eyes. Hardin recognized the residual traces of divine power at once, having seen it so many times before.

Perhaps this was not the best time to ask anything of Sydney, Hardin noted as Sydney rose, restless, and went to gaze out the window. He would be easily distracted, if not outright irritable, and it was possible that he would want only release, not conversation. The thought made Hardin hesitate, uncertain... and when he realized it, he grew even more uncertain. It hadn't been so long ago that he had offered his body to be used in whatever way Sydney fancied - he'd even found pleasure in it - but now it made him wary? _It would be better if it were myself, rather than another_ , he thought to himself. Once it had been justification for his selfishness, now it was cynicism.

It may have been telling of Sydney's state of mind that he hadn't closed himself off from the Sight. Either he didn't mind, or there was too much magical energy surrounding him for him to pick out Hardin's scrying among it. Hardin hoped for the former, for he was going to take the chance. It was only proper that he know what was being plotted, for the sake of his own tactical decisions.

"So you show yourself at last," Sydney muttered absently, opening the door to Hardin's knock. Hardin thought this may not be a good omen, seeing as he couldn't tell whether Sydney's penetrating gaze was a sign of anger or of the gods' omniscience.

He'd ignore the difficult questions for the time being, and begin with the obvious. "You've been in communion with the gods?" he asked, taking a step inside as Sydney stood back. "...Did they reveal anything important?"

"All they reveal is important," Sydney replied, almost a rebuke, as he returned to the window for a moment, then turned again. "On occasion, there is the question of how and why, but they do not speak thus needlessly."

He sounded slightly frustrated, but Hardin knew that it was not directed at him. He sighed and sat down at the table, watching Sydney pace aimlessly, and somewhat unsteadily. It was always awe-inspiring when the gods descended on Sydney to speak through him... but seeing the price that was paid afterwards, that left him more protective than impressed. Though Sydney would soon collapse, perhaps for a full day or more, Hardin knew better by now than to suggest that he try to rest.

Sydney did not seem likely to explain whatever it was that had caused him to go so deep, besides. Hardin watched him pace for a little longer, then - before he could open his mouth to speak, Sydney halted and turned to face him. "On the matter of Rosencrantz - did I not ask that you trust me?"

Hardin should have known better than to think that he was anything less than transparent to the prophet in his current state. "...He said he was leaving on your orders. You'd mentioned no plan for him - not to me."

"All I can tell you is that you must trust me," Sydney repeated.

The look Sydney was leveling at him, with some of the force of the gods behind it as well, left Hardin feeling as if he were pinned to his seat for interrogation. "I _do_ trust you," he said quickly. "It is _him_ that I cannot trust."

"Is that so?" Sydney smirked briefly, coming to rest his hands on the back of the other chair, facing Hardin. "Whose words made you come to me today? Whose words are you questioning, Hardin?"

...He did have a point. "I apologize. I am trying to keep faith, Sydney, but... it seems that everything has grown complicated."

"Indeed it has," Sydney agreed quietly. "More complicated than you know."

Coming from Sydney, it was almost a moment of vulnerability. "You could tell me," Hardin suggested, but Sydney shook his bowed head.

 _This is even more absurd than it was when we met._ Hardin didn't care that Sydney must hear every thought as clearly as if he'd said it aloud. Let him. _Then, I had yet to prove myself. Have I not managed it, even now? Or is something terrible happening, that you would choose to withdraw from me again?_

Sydney still said nothing. "Would you like me to come to you after dinner?" Hardin asked at last.

"If you wish," Sydney murmured in reply. "I'm unlikely to stay awake for long," he added as Hardin nodded.

"That's fine."

Sydney glanced up at him, looking serious. "That's _preferable_ , rather."

As always, he was correct - it hadn't escaped Hardin's notice that Sydney had answered none of his questions, which didn't make Hardin feel any less as if he was being toyed with.

 _But I will not give up_ , he reminded himself.

True to his word, Sydney was only semi-conscious when Hardin returned. He lay twisted beneath the bedsheets, as if he wanted to curl into himself, but the metal limbs made it uncomfortable. Hardin, who had much experience with Sydney in various stages of discomfort, knew just where to touch, just how to soothe the tensed muscles. Soon, Sydney was sound asleep in his arms, head nestled into Hardin's shoulder. As Hardin was himself not particularly tired, he lay awake and thought.

...He'd had far too much time to think of late.  


* * *

Sydney, on the other hand, was all too ready to take the time to think about what he'd learned, under the guise of exhaustion. And what had he learned? That Rosencrantz was a vital part of the equation, regardless of his fickle allegiances. That he was in some way connected to the next Keeper - the man with the sword that had once belonged to the Lady. That he was to die, that the Duke was to die, that Hardin was to die - things he already knew. It hadn't taken the gods' revelations, either, to tell him that time was rapidly running out. And yet, there was so much left to do...

Most of it would have to wait, however - wait until he put a few more pieces of the puzzle in place. That he could not do until more was revealed. He already had a contingency plan in mind, in case they were not revealed quickly enough, though it might not be worth even trying if the circumstances changed. It would be a setback, besides, of everything the Duke was trying to accomplish.

...He did not want to think about that anymore. But there was little to be done if he did not, there was little time left in which to do so, and there were far less pleasant ways to go about thinking than while lying in bed with Hardin, even if Hardin's heart was currently brimming over with uncertainty that Sydney could not speak to.

Why was he still so eager to please with his actions, Sydney wondered, when his heart was reluctant? It would have been simpler for both of them if Hardin had fallen back into the role of second-in-command of their company, a talented officer whose objective was to win the war, and no more. He was nothing like Rosencrantz, offering alliance only if it had a direct benefit to himself; Hardin had given an oath, and he would serve Sydney even if he grew to hate him. Perhaps even if he were to go mad from the Dark, become a demon. While Hardin's mind prized freedom, his soul yearned for a master.

Was that not the same sort of fanaticism his other followers offered, in essence? There was a difference, easy enough for Sydney to spot in the details, but hard to define overall. If he were to be overcome by the Dark, Hardin, unlike the rest, would recognize his madness. But like the rest, he would continue to follow.

There was a simple answer - deceptively, foolishly simple - but Sydney did not like to think upon such things. Better it was by far to accept Hardin's offerings - cold water, a steady arm, the gentle touch of his lips and his hands. As the hours passed, one day becoming another as Sydney drifted between weary contentment and unconsciousness, he could feel Hardin settling. _This is as it was,_ came the thought, and the peace it brought was a welcome lie to them both.

It was half a day after Sydney had begun to feel less empty and mortal, and was still taking advantage of his need for bedrest to have some time to himself to just think, when a knock came on the door. The knock was not quiet, but neither was it impolitely loud.

Hardin seemed not to agree with this assessment, casting a protective glance at Sydney in the bed at the sudden noise. He'd been sitting at the table in the room with a cup of light wine, silently reviewing some reports that had come in from distant allies. Now Sydney could sense his indignation at their visitor's thoughtlessness, and it abruptly turned to outright irritation as he seemingly scryed the hallway. _I might have known._ Just from this, Sydney could guess who had knocked.

He opened his eyes, just a little, as Hardin hesitated and stood, then hesitated again, and finally went to answer the door. Now that Sydney knew what to look for, he felt the sudden jolt of shock, which was quickly muted as Rosencrantz closed himself off from the Dark again as harshly as if he were slamming something shut. Obviously he had not expected to find Hardin there - particularly not like this, as Hardin's underlying smugness plainly told Sydney that he had quite _deliberately_ not put on a shirt before answering the door.

"Good evening, Hardin." Rosencrantz recovered himself quickly, if it had been at all apparent to anyone but a heartseer that he had faltered in the first place. "Might you be able to tell me where I could find Sydney?"

"He's in his bed." Hardin nodded vaguely over his shoulder. "I will let him know in the morning that you've returned."

"I see... He sleeps, then? I hope my knocking did not disturb him."

"It would seem not," Hardin replied flatly, much to Sydney's amusement. "And no surprise. He was rather worn out."

"Apparently so..." Rosencrantz murmured. "I shall look forward to speaking with him on the morrow, then?"

"Indeed. If that is all..."

"Yes - that is all. Good night, then, to the two of you."

"Good night, Rosencrantz."

The door shut. Through half-closed eyelids, Sydney watched as Hardin returned to the table and sat down, picking up a paper to continue where he'd left off. It was as if nothing of consequence had happened at all, to the eyes of an observer. But for an observer who observed with more than the eyes... It would have been impossible for Sydney _not_ to see that Hardin was filled with vindictive satisfaction.

Sydney couldn't help himself; he started to laugh.

Hardin looked up in surprise, and narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Sydney's mirth. After a moment, though, he gave in with a wry, self-conscious smile of his own. "I don't see that it was all that amusing," he muttered in half-hearted protest.

He was right in a way, Sydney thought, for it wouldn't have been nearly as amusing if it had been anyone other than Hardin - stern, dignified John Hardin, who used to flush with anger and embarrassment if anyone so much as implied anything about the two of them. "You're lying," he informed Hardin, still chuckling. "You enjoyed that very much."

"...Yes," Hardin admitted, the reluctant smile growing wider as he came to sit on the bed next to Sydney. "Am I to take this to mean that you've recovered?"

"For the most part, though I feel parched. And I've grown weary of water," he added, as Hardin began to reach for the pitcher. "I'd much prefer the wine you opened earlier, if you're willing to share."

"Not before you've eaten something - it would only put you to sleep again. Would you eat something if I brought it?"

"I would love to." Sydney found that he was ravenous, as well. How long had it been since he'd had solid food? He'd completely lost track of time, but it must have passed if Rosencrantz had already returned.

"I will see what might remain of dinner, then. It isn't long past the hour."

Hardin hesitated, suddenly once more indecisive. Sydney chose to take the decision from him, and reached up to draw Hardin down with the flat of his palm, angling his own face upwards. Hardin responded with relief and gratitude, with a kiss deeper than he'd intended.

 _This is how it should be_ , came the thought again.

Fate would say otherwise, Sydney thought to himself. But fate had not come calling. Not quite yet.


	7. Chapter 7

It seemed to Hardin as though the situation had much improved, though he could only guess at why. Perhaps Sydney had needed some time alone with his gods to calm his soul. Perhaps he too had become irritated, having been cooped up in the city for much of the year - for Hardin knew that such problems were rarely the fault of one person alone - or perhaps he'd let his worries distract him to the point that he hadn't been paying enough attention to what Sydney was telling him he needed. Or rather, was not telling him; Sydney had a habit of shutting tight against the things that most troubled him, and instead venting his anger on the smaller matters. Perhaps they'd both been too busy and preoccupied.

Regardless of the cause, all seemed to be healing between them, if imperfectly. Hardin still was not pleased that Rosencrantz appeared to have business with Sydney that neither would discuss with him. On the other hand, it was Hardin who slept beside Sydney at night. Rosencrantz eyed him with a gaze that stopped just short of being a dirty look when they crossed paths, and Hardin acknowledged his presence with a nod. It was better this way, with no illusion of friendship to maintain. And if Sydney was sending the man away on some manner of secret mission, as he continued to disappear sporadically? At least he was not in the city all the time.

As for Hardin, he'd decided that any threat of imminent trespass by the Blades was likely past, and delegated the task of keeping watch over the tunnels to others - men he'd known long enough to trust with the task. This meant that he spent more time in the Keep with his men - and with Sydney. He felt no need to avoid him any longer, after all.

He'd only just become accustomed once again to waking up with Sydney beside him, when he woke late one night to find himself alone. Sydney hadn't gone far, though; he was standing at the window, looking out at the city.

While he was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Sydney spoke up. "The Blades will be paying us a visit this morning. You should go yourself, rather than sending Aryn and Kermiak - they would be overwhelmed."

There was no need to ask - Sydney had seen something. The idea that there would be enough to overwhelm the two excellent swordsmen he'd chosen for the day, however... "How many?"

"A dozen, at least. Likely not two, but I cannot be sure."

"That should be no trouble, unless they have something up their sleeves." Thanks to Sydney's lessons, Hardin had certain talents at his disposal that gave him an advantage over most of the brethren. He hesitated, though, as he sat up in bed, remembering a similar vision Sydney had seen years ago, and a choice that had been made. "...Sydney. Is this..."

Sydney shook his head, and perhaps sensing Hardin's uncertainty, turned to look him in the eye. "No. This is something which you can do, given advance warning and time to prepare, where our two brethren could not. You are not to die today."

Hardin gave him a small nod in reply, feeling relieved, and somewhat ashamed of that relief. "Even if it were so," he explained, "I would go in their place. But I..." It was difficult to put into words. "...There is a great deal I believe I must see through before I could rest."

Regarding him with a somber gaze, Sydney knelt on the bed again and reached out to cup Hardin's cheek in one hand. "May it be so," he murmured, with a soft, fond smile. "Few men go to their deaths feeling that they've accomplished all they could in life, and those who do often believe it was not enough."

Hardin gazed back at him, uncertain what to say to this, if it in fact required a reply. He wasn't sure, and for the time being, he was content to drink in that tired moonlit smile.

A caress that was barely there at all, and then Sydney sat back, removing his hand. "Prepare well for the confrontation tomorrow morning, Hardin. I assure you, there is much left to do before either of us is permitted to rest."

Hardin nodded. He already had a plan in mind. A dozen knights or more, was it...?  


* * *

Hardin had indeed prepared well for the Blades' arrival, given the advance warning. The rooms in the cellar largely lacked doors, but those that remained were locked magically, with sigils. This would have been enough to keep most intruders from entering, but a sigil could be broken through various methods. Sydney had also warned him that some of the cardinal's knights now used magic, just as they themselves did; it might be possible for them to dispel an enchantment.

Hardin was more startled at the idea of holy knights of St. Iocus willingly using the Dark than he was at the thought that his sigils might not be effective - he had a backup plan, and the hypocrites would not come close enough to use the Dark against one of its masters. Before dawn had broken, he'd drawn all the necessary intricacies of a large magic circle upon the ground in the room he usually used for his scrying, and begun the early stages of the ritual. He would not finish now, for it would be exhausting to sustain - few could finish it at all, aside from Sydney, but he had more stamina and a stronger will than most.

In the meantime, he would sit and watch from a chamber a bit further into the tunnels, behind another set of sigils and close to the teleportation circle. There was little danger to his person even if the Blades did manage to get through. As Sydney had said, this was a matter he could take care of, where others could not.

Once he had made the preparations, he had little to do but watch and wonder. It was a strange tactic the Blades were using, to send such a small force. Even if they did number two dozen, or even three, they must know that they could never take Leá Monde by force when Müllenkamp outnumbered them, and knew the city far better. The only chance they had to accomplish anything with so few men would have been for them to sneak in and mount a surprise attack - and if that were their plan, why would they not make the attempt in the dead of night? Perhaps they'd heard the rumors - rumors that had some basis in truth, though highly exaggerated - and had no way of knowing that using the Dark would largely protect them from the beings that prowled at night.

He didn't have to wait long; the sun was low in the sky when he began to hear footsteps along the old broken road. Not the clanking of plate armor, not today - these Blades were dressed in armor of hardened leather, and moved more quietly. A squadron intended for stealth, obviously, just as Hardin had suspected. They spent some time scouting the area as they approached, and Hardin noted that none of them seemed to be able to sense him there as he watched from afar. Going against an enemy that had that manner of talent could be troublesome, especially when his defense depended largely upon the element of surprise.

Having found nothing noteworthy, the Blades - eighteen, Hardin counted - gathered together by the entrance, apparently to compare notes and review their plan. Hardin listened with interest. "Seven rooms in," said a man who seemed to be the commanding officer, at least for the duration of the mission. "The room beforehand will have barrels on a wooden stand in the far left corner from where we enter, and bottles of wine in hollows along the left wall." Hardin frowned curiously, recognizing the room of which the man spoke. "You four - when we enter, you will pass by instead of engaging the enemy, and guard the far door so that there can be no escape."

"Teleportation?" spoke up another knight.

"I think not," the commander replied. "Few can manage it at all, nearly enough none without a circle. Cutting him off from the doors should do the trick."

...This was absurd, Hardin thought. At first he'd thought they'd managed to somehow identify the location of his trap, but their objective was now clear, and he could scarcely believe it.

"Some of us will likely perish," the commander added, more seriously. "Though we have agreed to fight fire with fire, he has years of experience over us - would we send so many if it were not so? But remember, we seek to exterminate a dangerous rebel, and dishearten the heretics. Even Losstarot himself may despair at this loss. To take part in such a holy mission would doubtless cover many minor sins, but I suggest that we take a moment now for each man to examine his heart, to ensure that you are all right with God."

So they thought to kill him specifically, did they? Hardin's grip on his sword tightened. It would have been almost amusing to be the target of an assassination attempt now - after his family's deaths and his disgrace, the holdings and titles had returned to the monarchy, and he now had no more prestige than any other criminal. At the moment, the irony was lost on him, for such a detailed plot made one thing obvious - someone had informed the Blades of precisely the spot from which he had kept watch.

Considering that there were few who knew, most of whom had been with Müllenkamp even longer than he, and exactly one who had recently been away on undisclosed business, Hardin had a strong suspicion that he knew who the traitor was.

His outrage, however, was allowed to last only as long as the knights' moment of prayer. As the commander gave the order to move in, Hardin changed vantage points, to watch as they approached the first sigil. They had evidently been trained by someone competent, for before any of them reached out to touch the door, one knight cast a spell to reveal the enchantment, and set about deciphering it. The sigils would indeed be only a very temporary setback, as they were simple ones; Hardin had focused more on what would be waiting for them if they did manage to break through.

It was time to finish the ritual. Again he changed vantage points, now scrying the room in which the Blades thought he waited. It was rather convenient that as long as there was a strong spirit present to take control, the Dark did not so much care where his physical body was. Footsteps echoed in the next room, the Blades having opted to abandon the hope of avoiding his notice at this point, and Hardin carefully spoke the last words of command.

The sigil on the door collapsed into dust, and the knights burst in just in time to see the elaborate circle on the floor spring to life, spinning in place like a great glowing wheel. The lines and runes flared upwards, causing even Hardin to instinctively shield his eyes - then a great shape began to rise from the center. As the glare faded, the shape at first appeared to be akin to that of a large, dusty boulder, but then it straightened, unfurling and revealing its true stature. Standing upright, the titan looked like a gigantic stone statue of a man, but it did not stay still for long; from the will of the summoner, it identified the enemy and thundered into action at once.

Although the knights may have been well-prepared to face a sorcerer, a sorcerer was still human, and they were clearly unprepared to face a summoned creature such as this. While their swords and axes would have bitten deep into Hardin's flesh, against the titan they could only manage shallow cuts that annoyed him more than they harmed him. Since it seemed obvious to the titan that these creatures had come solely to harass him, he was all too pleased to systematically dispatch them. It was all Hardin could do to keep him from causing a quake - even a small, localized one might have damaged the tunnel.

The commander was one of three still alive when Hardin decided to release the titan back to his own world. His control was growing too strained, and he did not want the commander dead just yet besides. With only three Blades remaining, all wounded and shaken, he was in little danger. Just in case, however, he cast a spell of protection before dissolving the sigil and opening the door.

Though wounded, clutching their injuries and panting for breath, one foolish knight rose to rush at Hardin with sword in hand. He fell back, crying out with a curse, as a simple spell engulfed him before he'd reached his target. Hardin stood with his own sword raised to defend himself if necessary, and looked to the commander. "Tell me who passed you the information about my whereabouts, and I _may_ be inclined to spare your lives."

"Think you we fear death?" the other remaining knight spat, trying to get to his feet despite a crushed, unresponsive ankle. "We will be rewarded for our efforts when we reach paradise!"

"Perhaps," Hardin replied, "were your soul permitted to find its way there. Did they not tell you what becomes of those souls who find themselves without a body within the bounds of Leá Monde?"

It seemed that the commander knew, because he held up a hand in surrender. "We cannot tell you," he gasped, the other hand clutching at his broken ribs. "Our general gave us the information when he assigned us this task. He did not say from whence it came, and we did not ask."

Hardin found that this was plausible. It would even have been wise. He had to know for certain, however. "Your comrades have already discovered what fate awaits those who die within our city. If you wish to join them..."

"I know not!" the commander repeated, more urgently. "The general told us only that he had an informant! Why would he tell us more, when we had sworn to follow the instructions that we were given?"

"What instructions were those?" Hardin supposed that he might as well find out just how compliant they were.

The knight Hardin had just wounded with a spell was less compliant than his commander. "Say nothing, traitor! Be you a man or a child, to be frightened by such tales?"

"Silence yourself!" the commander admonished him.

"God will save us from this evil, if-"

"Did not your commanding officer tell you to silence yourself?" Hardin growled, and turned his attention back to the commander. "What were your instructions? I am losing patience with your disobedient underlings."

"They ordered us to kill you," the commander said quickly. "To seek you out in the early mornings, in this chamber, where you were said to keep watch. We were to take you by surprise, then make our escape when we were done - it was not our intention to take the city, only to strike a strong blow against Müllenkamp..."

"Who was the general who gave you this order?"

Before his question could be answered, Hardin saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The spell was on his tongue as he turned, and the foolish knight fell burned and lifeless to the floor almost before he could scream.

Not so for the other knight, who cried out in alarm. "Benneit! Sir...!"

"He brought it upon himself, Gustave," the commander told him. "Be silent, lest the same come to you. ...Guildenstern," he said, looking up to Hardin with hate in his eyes. "Romeo Guildenstern gave the orders."

Hardin had half expected this answer, but he'd hoped for another. Guildenstern was the general behind most of the attacks and ambushes, but he was also too high in rank and far too cunning for Müllenkamp to get a spy close enough to be of any use. He waited a moment, to see if the commander would offer any further information, but it seemed there was none.

Finally he lowered his weapon, though he did not sheathe it. "Very well. You may go, and tell Guildenstern that his informer knows less than he believes he does. And I would advise you to hurry," he added, glancing around the room at the remains of the knights slain by the titan. "You may have heard the tales about what happens not only to the souls of those who perish within the city, but to their corpses as well... Now that you have drawn the attention of the Dark, it should not take long."

With that, he turned his back and headed towards the city. With the Sight, he kept watch over his shoulder, just in case, but the two remaining knights were now far too wary to attempt anything further.

Once the door was closed behind him, their conversation was urgent and hushed, debating what to do with the bodies of their fellows, and deciding that it would be safest to just leave as quickly as possible. Hardin placed a sigil on the door behind him nonetheless. There was no sense leaving it open to further intruders.

That was the end of what he was required to do according to his position in Müllenkamp. Now, on a more personal level, he was free to be furious once again. He was of a mind to find Rosencrantz and confront him directly - but perhaps fortunately, the summoning had exhausted him so that he thought it safer to walk back to town, rather than using one of the circles to teleport. The walk gave him time to calm down, and to think.

There was a chance it was _not_ Rosencrantz. He was by far the most likely suspect, but if the knights could use the Dark, perhaps one had bewitched another of their number. It could be, also, that the Blades had someone who shared his own talent for scrying distant locations. But then, would they not have utilized that ability during the mission, and seen the trap that had been set? Sydney had said that it was a rare talent, besides, so it was unlikely. But possible, still - and there may have been some other explanation that he was unaware of.

The wisest choice, he decided, was to inform Sydney of his suspicions. He was to report the incident to Sydney anyhow - and had he come to any other conclisions, he would have offered them as well. Yes, turning the matter over to Sydney would be best.

Scrying revealed that Sydney was prowling the keep at this early hour, restlessly making rounds to ensure that all was as it should be. It was easy enough to catch up with him in a corridor, and his expression turned curious at once. "For a relatively simple task," he noted, "it seems to have caused you a fair bit of distress."

"They never planned to attack or invade," Hardin told him, grim. "They came in search of _me_ , specifically. They sought to kill me, in hopes of causing you and the others to lose heart."

Sydney's eyes widened, just slightly, the only indication that he was at all surprised - but then, that in itself was telling, for he seldom gave such indications at all. "Let us speak in private," he suggested, turning towards the library.

Once inside, with the door closed and a sigil applied, he spoke again. "At the very least, we now know how badly they underestimate you."

"Little comfort, when they _did_ manage to find out precisely when and where I've been known to keep watch," Hardin replied, his agitation beginning to bubble up again. "Someone told them of the _exact_ location, Sydney - right down to a detailed description of the chamber just before."

Sydney regarded him in thoughtful silence for a moment. "...I shall speak to Rosencrantz."

Hardin was surprised but relieved to hear this. "You suspect him as well?"

" _You_ quite clearly suspect him," Sydney pointed out, "and it's as fine a place to begin as any other. As for myself, I could not say that it was impossible-"

"Or implausible," Hardin muttered.

"I will take care of the situation, Hardin," Sydney told him again. "Was there anything else noteworthy about this skirmish?"

"Nothing you had not already seen, or that I could not guess." Hardin relaxed, somewhat. "Someone has taught them to dispel a sigil - and unsurprisingly, Guildenstern was responsible for organizing this mission..."

Surely Sydney _would_ take care of it. If Rosencrantz had spoken to the Blades - even assisting them in such a plot, against any of their number - then Sydney would see that he suffered for it. Hardin had seen before what Sydney did to those who would betray them, and sometimes had been the one to carry out such orders.

"Hardin," Sydney spoke up abruptly, interrupting what he was saying out loud to respond to what he was thinking to himself. "I said that I would take care of it. Do not concern yourself."

Hardin found this frustrating. "...With all due respect, Sydney," he began, "someone sent a squadron of knights to kill me, very likely someone in our midst. I cannot help but be concerned."

Unlike Sydney, who didn't seem the slightest bit troubled. If it had been Sydney - and many times it had been - Hardin would have been outraged, ready to confront any suspects right away. And here they were, talking about things they already knew instead of worrying about a possible traitor?

"I have taken precautions," Sydney told him. "As for you - did you not defeat them easily? You've put yourself in far worse danger for my sake than this before."

"Yes, but never before did someone have a vendetta against me, personally," Hardin replied hotly.

"On the contrary - there is no evidence that it was someone with a personal reason to wish you harm. There are many who would wish you or I dead, because of what we do and what we represent."

"Not so many who know the tunnels and have seen me below."

"I shall deal with it," Sydney repeated, slowly and firmly. "And I tell you, Hardin - if you take this upon yourself, rushing to conclusions and hastening towards vengeance, you will ruin everything."

He sounded so certain that Hardin was unsure whether he should be even angrier, or simply comply. "...Is this something you've seen, Sydney?"

"Does it matter?" Sydney inquired. "Is my word not enough? If I say that it will be taken care of, then it will. Have you forgotten my power?"

"True, that I know your power," Hardin acknowledged, albeit grudgingly. Sydney was not answering his questions. "But when you yourself have admitted that your power does not work against the most likely suspect...?"

"The ability to read hearts is not the only power I possess. I have other methods at my disposal - and I _will_ make use of them. There is no need to fret."

Indeed, Sydney looked perfectly calm, not the slightest bit bothered by any of this. That left Hardin all the more disgruntled. "...If it had been you at the center of this plot, I would have been fretting all the more, even taking into account your immortality."

Sydney looked at him, eyes narrowing abruptly. "Your heart is that of a child, Hardin - crying out 'Why do you not care?' I tell you this: I have seen no reason for concern. We shall worry when I have seen cause to worry."

...And why should his heart _not_ cry out thus? If it had been Sydney, concern for his safety would hardly have been an issue. The thought that someone would dare turn against him, to try to harm him - that was what would have set him ablaze. As for Hardin, being far more mortal... and Sydney did not see everything, besides. Hardin knew that all too well.

They had seemed closer recently, yes. But what had Sydney done during this time to make it so? Once, being allowed to care for Sydney, to share his bed, had seemed a privilege. But many had shared his bed, and the right to watch over Sydney in his weakness had been a singular, thin privilege. Then, it had spoken of something new, but now, it might as well be a habit...

Sydney, despite his talent for hearing the unspoken, watched Hardin with cold eyes. "...As you have said, then," Hardin said gruffly, turning away. "You will handle this."

He'd taken only two steps towards the door before Sydney spoke, in dangerous tones. "Do not try me, Hardin. My faithfulness to you is true, but truer is my faithfulness to the gods - and you know not their ways."

Hardin paused for a moment, and chose to speak aloud this time. "You may as well be one of them."

Almost immediately after leaving the library, he wished that he had not agreed to let Sydney handle it. His mood could only have improved by having the opportunity to confront Rosencrantz - still sleeping, Hardin Saw, and wouldn't it be entertaining to wake him? - but he _had_ agreed. Regardless of Sydney's warning, he thought that it just might be time that someone 'tried' Sydney.

...Surely this was a test that would be passed. A traitor in their midst required investigation and ultimately punishment. Truly, this was no test at all.

The thought allowed Hardin to calm himself - over the betrayal, over Sydney's unperturbed acceptance of the matter... and though he hated to admit it, over his own guilt for daring to test Sydney.  


* * *

Regardless of Hardin's lack of faith, Sydney was very much aware of the danger - and of the probability that Rosencrantz _was_ responsible. All the pieces fit into place quite neatly. He disliked Hardin, and would have had the perfect opportunity. Further, he had the perfect excuse if found out.

It didn't matter. Even were the excuse more than an excuse, Sydney was every bit as furious as Hardin, and not any more inclined to let it go.

Unfortunately, even if provided with absolute proof, Sydney could do little. The gods had decreed that Jan Rosencrantz was important, and thus he would have to remain, no matter how much Sydney desired to demonstrate to him just how useless his defenses were before the power of the Keeper.

On the other hand, Rosencrantz was not aware of this. Sydney therefore was free to frighten him as much as he wished. First, he would need to take a quick look in the wine cellar, to see that all was as it should be in such a place, after such an event...

Not much later, he had tracked down Rosencrantz, who was sparring in the courtyard with some of the men. Obviously he was holding back, if what Hardin had told him of the Riskbreakers was true, but he did so with such skill that it was not apparent in the least.

His opponent was on the ground soon regardless, and Rosencrantz extending a hand to help him up. "Congratulations on a well-earned victory," Sydney told him, stepping forward to get his attention. Immediately, he had the attention of everyone in the courtyard - such was the manner of the Dark. "If I might have a moment of your time, Rosencrantz?"

"But of course." Rosencrantz slid his sword back into its scabbard, following Sydney as he turned to leave the courtyard

"...Why do you so deceive my men," Sydney asked, as they made their way through the town center, "by pretending mediocrity? Or are Riskbreakers truly little more skilled with a sword than an average man?"

"Ah, but would they not resent me," Rosencrantz replied, "if I were to best them without effort? Most men find the experience humiliating."

"Better to be bested repeatedly by an ally, that one may learn, than to be bested once by an enemy and perish," Sydney pointed out. "Think of what you could teach them. If we should chance to face the Riskbreakers one day, would it not be to their advantage to have faced such talent before?"

"Facing the Riskbreakers?" Rosencrantz shook his head, incredulous. "I mean no disrespect to your men, naturally - but even years of practice would not prepare most to match swords with a Riskbreaker. Perhaps the Dark could even the field to a degree, but even so... Not that I would be unwilling to try," he added. "If you've come to request that I instruct them..."

"No, not at all," Sydney replied. "At the moment, it is you who will receive instruction."

"Oh...?"

"Patience, Rosencrantz." Sydney led them to one of the magic circles, tucked back in the shadows of an alley. "You shall see shortly."

In order for Sydney to teleport the two of them, Rosencrantz did have to stop blocking him briefly. In that moment, Sydney was pleased when alongside the dizzy rush of the spell at work, he felt a very distinct aura of nervous agitation radiating from Rosencrantz.

As soon as the wine cellar had materialized around them, Rosencrantz had shielded himself thoroughly again. "There was something of a skirmish here this morning," Sydney said, nonchalant as he led them onward.

"The Blades?" Sydney suspected that the worried look on his face was authentic, though for the wrong reasons. Or, given why he had brought Rosencrantz to this place, perhaps for the right reasons.

"Correct. It seems that they thought they might take us by surprise to dishearten us, having somehow learned a trivial bit of knowledge." Sydney opened the door and strode through, into the center of the room. "Come, see the outcome for yourself."

Rosencrantz stepped into the room and took in the sight - at least a dozen armored corpses, crushed and bloodied from wounds that had obviously been inflicted by no sword. "...A terrible battle indeed. And was it truly only this morning? These look..."

"Only this morning, Rosencrantz. You see, the Dark has many ways of affecting the flesh, besides the obvious." Even now, he could feel it gathering around them, whirling and cackling, intrigued by the presence of Rosencrantz and the possibilities it presented. "These knights were not slain by spells, nor by a skillful swordsman. Rather, a skillful swordsman cast a spell to summon a creature - brought forth by magic, but as solid as you and I, and just as capable of destroying its opponents without the use of the Dark."

Rosencrantz's head jerked to the side suddenly, as he saw something move amidst the carnage. One hand moved slowly towards a cracked sword that lay nearby, and a head raised, displaying a crooked helm and a desiccated face. All around the room, the dead began to stir.

To his credit, Rosencrantz did not panic, but drew his sword with a wary look. "...And this is how the dead walk..."

"The Dark prefers warm, fresh blood to feed upon," Sydney said simply, arms folded across his chest as he observed the dead rising all around. "It is happy to use the flesh it has already sucked dry to seek such out."

Rosencrantz raised his sword protectively as one corpse lurched to its feet. "So I see. I dare say I've gotten the point of this lesson, Sydney."

"I don't believe so, no." Sydney gave him a smile from the midst of the zombies, which paid him no mind as they began to wobble and lurch slowly in the direction of their prey. "The point is, dear Rosencrantz, that there are many ways in which the Dark can be used to kill someone - just as Hardin, for instance, disposed of these knights who somehow knew of precisely when and where he had been keeping watch, and made an attempt on his life. Similar principles could be used, say, against one suspected of passing along such information to our enemies. Even if, perchance, this suspect cannot be touched by an ordinary spell."

At that, Rosencrantz's eyes finally widened in alarm. "Has the Dark led me astray in my suspicions, Rosencrantz?" Sydney inquired.

"Sydney...!" His eyes narrowed abruptly as one of the creatures hobbled towards him, and he slashed at it with his sword, causing it to crumple in a heap for the moment. Another followed, and he did likewise. "I had to give them something useful," he explained hurriedly between blows. "Why would they provide me with information without receiving something in return? They are fools no more than you or I! Obviously, as we can see from this slaughter, Hardin was never truly in danger."

Sydney watched from across the room as the dead closed in around Rosencrantz. Already being dead, they were not deterred by the loss of a limb here or there, or a blade through the heart. "Nor are you truly in danger now. You, who were a Riskbreaker... But you are not enjoying yourself, are you?"

"I should say not!" A ferocious swing of Rosencrantz's sword spattered blood in a great arc, as he cut down several of his attackers at once, earning himself more room to move. Although he was fighting seriously now, he seemingly was able to comprehend Sydney's words. "This is not intended as my execution, then?"

"As I said before, you merely required instruction." Not in fighting, by any means; once Rosencrantz had determined what was going on, he made short work of his undead opponents. In moments, he and Sydney were staring at each other across a room filled only with gore and a mad, mischievous cackling that Sydney alone could hear. _Someday,_ Sydney assured it. _Someday, I will let you have this one._

"When I assigned you a task," Sydney began, "you sought recompense, and I told you that to start, you would work to earn my trust. Instead, you have worked a plot against my second. A betrayal such as this earns not trust, but rather a painful death. But no," he added, "I will not kill you. We shall, however, start back at the beginning. You will have to work harder for your hire, Rosencrantz."

Rosencrantz did not sheathe his sword. Sydney wondered with ironic amusement if he thought to slay the zombies, should they rise again, or Sydney himself. "What am I to do then, Sydney?" Rosencrantz asked. "I must give them something to gain their trust - if they will not kill me on sight, after this defeat. They may believe that I set them up..."

"If they doubt your authenticity, it may be wise for you to point out that it is rather difficult to surprise an enemy that has a prophet," Sydney replied. "This is naught but truth - you _do_ know how to use truth for your own purposes as well as lies, I am certain. As for the information you will pass to them, we will discuss the matter before and after each outing. This second chance is my generosity, but I will not be so generous as to offer a third."

"...You put me in a difficult position," Rosencrantz muttered. "This may be my execution after all. What if they have heartseers, like yourself?"

"Should not your own talent be sufficient to confound any besides the Keeper?" Sydney suggested. "And should they turn on you physically, you have more skill than you have yet shown. I told you not to play the fool with me, dear Rosencrantz."

"...Very well, then. I shall try," Rosencrantz agreed. "But please do keep in mind that I would be of little use to you as a dead man."

Sydney raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? I believe these men -" he gestured around the room at the remains of the knights "-who worked with an enemy against me, were all far more use to me after their deaths. If nothing else, they served me well as a tool for teaching a lesson. Further," he added with a dangerous smile, "I have little use to begin with for treacherous fools."

"Of course." Rosencrantz had regained his composure, but remained in a moderately defensive stance. "I would be pleased to hear any further instructions now, in fact - but could we perhaps find another place to speak?"

Sydney smirked, and indicated the door through which they had entered. Perhaps he could teach Rosencrantz obedience. He had a nagging feeling, however, that it might not be a simple task.


	9. Chapter 9

The first day, the hunting party had made a circuit of the land, looking for game and setting snares in promising locations. The expectation was that they would make the rounds again in the morning, checking the snares while they stalked larger prey, and would make their way back to Leá Monde in the evening with what they had caught.

None of them had expected, however, just what sort of prey they would be stalking, or with what catch they would be returning.

The land had been good to them - the gods perhaps showing mercy, Kermiak suggested, if they were to endure a difficult season - they would be returning with more meat and fur than they'd been expecting. Their good spirits were muted a bit, though, when they came across fresh footprints on the way back to Leá Monde. They were in an undeveloped land, no towns but Leá Monde for some distance, and yet the footprints seemed to be heading much the same direction as they.

"It may be only another hunting party," Aryn suggested. "Though a dozen..."

"And well-armed," Kermiak put in, kneeling beside a print. He was the best tracker among them. "The turn of the foot suggests they carry swords."

"It should not take us long to find out," said Hardin. After what had transpired recently - and with no resolution as of yet - he did not wish to take any chances. "Kermiak?"

Kermiak was able to follow a clear trail nearly at a run, and he had been assigned to such tasks by Hardin before. They covered ground quickly, Hardin scrying ahead so that they would not stumble upon the strangers if they had stopped. As it turned out, they had - and Hardin held up a hand in warning. "Hold," he murmured. "It _is_ the Blades. ...In a sense."

It was rather odd, Hardin thought, as he described the scene to his companions. A dozen knights, but with only rudimentary armor and no emblems of rank, entering into their territory. They did wear swords, but looked to be little more than new recruits, rather than skilled fighters. Appearances could deceive, and yet Hardin was almost certain that he was correct, from the uneasy looks on some faces to the stubbornly determined looks on the rest as they glanced about. Some kept their hands near their weapons as they stood beside a fallen tree, seemingly waiting for something. "Whatever they wait for," Hardin commented, "they do not appear to be looking forward to it."

"We wait too, no?" Duncan muttered, idly fingering his knives.

"Exactly."

The young knights seemed to relax a bit as they waited, seeing that nothing out of the ordinary was happening. They lifted their heads, though, at a rustling in the brush nearby. "My apologies for startling you," said the man who emerged with a raised eyebrow. "I thought you might be more startled if I appeared having made no sound at all."

Hardin's eyes narrowed abruptly, enough reaction that Duncan gripped his knives, Kermiak reached for his sword, and Aryn and Domenic brought arrows to hand. "What is it?" Kermiak whispered.

"It seems I was right not to trust Rosencrantz," Hardin muttered. "...We do nothing yet. I need to make certain."

"You are not Commander Grissom," Rosencrantz observed, looking over the young knight who had stepped forward from the group. "Neither are you alone."

"After what happened to our brothers a few days past," he replied, his expression tense and tight, "they dared not risk it. Being of low rank, we are somewhat more expendable than Grissom."

"Doesn't it bother you," inquired Rosencrantz, "that your superiors consider you to be of so little worth? A full dozen, more expendable than a single man?"

"Our own lives are a small thing," spoke up another young knight from behind the first, "insignificant beside the need of church and country. Should we die here, our disappearance will tell them all they need to know about you, and what happened in the cellar, and thus will our deaths be of much value."

"Ah, that..." Rosencrantz shrugged helplessly. "I certainly gave them no encouragement. Did the commander forget that the sorcerers have a prophet? If I'd known they were intending a surprise attack, I'd have counseled them against it."

"As I thought," Hardin growled as he watched. "Rosencrantz has been passing information to the Blades. This is apparently not his first meeting with their agents."

His companions' faces grew dark. "Shall we do to them all as they deserve?" Aryn asked, looking as though he were merely asking permission.

Hardin shook his head, though reluctantly. "Not the knights. Just this morning, we spared the young buck so as to draw out the larger. We shall do likewise now, and wait until they are finished to attend to our traitor."

That seemed to be the arrangement that Rosencrantz and the young spokesman were debating now. "I agreed to meet with Grissom, and Grissom alone. Anything else is too risky - and besides, Grissom understands the rules of our game. You lot have barely grown out of painted toy soldiers - could you direct the doings of those who live and breathe?"

"Those who do sent us," the knight pointed out firmly.

"Only because you are expendable - you said it yourself," Rosencrantz replied. "All they wished to discover by sending you in Grissom's place was whether or not it was a trap. As you can see, there is no trap, so you now know what you were sent to know."

"And you yourself said that the cultists have a prophet," the knight retorted. "You still may be in league with them."

"What evidence do you have against me? The information I passed on was accurate, though acted upon poorly. I've threatened no one, though they sought to change the terms of our agreement."

"...Very well." The knight nodded, grudgingly. "I cannot promise they will agree to send Grissom, but I will relay your message. When shall the next contact take place?"

"The day following the new moon," Rosencrantz replied. "The heretics are observing some manner of ritual only a few days hence. 'Tis unwise to go missing at such a time."

The offhand explanation made Hardin all the more angry - now the Blades would know of a fortuitous time to attack. Unless they killed the knights before they could return... But then, now that he knew the Blades knew, he could plan accordingly. Perhaps he and Sydney could turn such an attack in their favor, if it occurred, and still lure their larger adversary...

Hardin smiled a grim smile. Despite his agreement with Sydney, he was obligated to act after what he'd just seen. It pleased him to think that he now had his evidence, and that he would be the one to present it for Sydney's judgment.

"We move, now," he told the others as Rosencrantz and the knights made the last of their arrangements. "The Blades will likely return the way they came, but we shall follow the traitor, to surround him as he returns to the city."

"I say we could drop him before he ever sets eyes on us," Domenic suggested, his expression serious, and Kermiak nodded.

The thought was tempting, and quite plausible, as they had multiple skilled archers among them at the moment. But... "No," Hardin stated. "We take him to Sydney, to see what he would have done with him. ...I suspect we may yet be allowed to practice our marksmanship."

The knights, having finished their business, turned to go. "Fan out, weapons at the ready," Hardin instructed his men. "You, to the north. You, to the south. Stay out of range until I give the signal. If he resists, do what you must to defend yourselves, but bringing him in alive would be preferable. Go!"

The men scattered at his command, just as they had many times before. Hardin kept an eye on each in turn with the Sight as he circled around to the southwest, intending to get in front of Rosencrantz. Well-practiced as they were, each of them fell into the proper position easily, moving with their target. As for the knights, they seemed oblivious to anything unusual as they headed back towards civilization. Good for them, Hardin thought, and focused on the one he _was_ to catch.

Although his men were good, particularly this group that had worked together for so long, Rosencrantz was exceptional. He seemed already to know that something was not right, and he glanced about warily as he walked, quickening his pace. Hardin had thought to take him when they were closer to the city, but he dared not chance the skill of a Riskbreaker fully aware of what he faced, and his men were already in place.

At the sound of his whistle, they closed in as one, swords and bows and knives at the ready all around. Rosencrantz had raised his sword, but stopped short when he saw who had him surrounded. "...Am I to be captured by my own fellows?" he asked, acting puzzled. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Which fellows might you consider your own?" Hardin asked him sternly in return. "The Blades, perhaps? Or still the VKP? You'll be answering to Sydney for what you've done."

Rather than appearing concerned, Rosencrantz acquired a small smirk. "Indeed...?"

Hardin didn't like the looks of that smirk. "Drop your sword."

"Very well," Rosencrantz agreed, opening his hand to let it fall, and raising both in surrender.

Hardin kept his eyes on Rosencrantz as he reached for the weapon. "No worries. You have a well-armed escort." He gave his men a nod, and prodded Rosencrantz to begin walking, still at the center of a ring of weaponry.

They walked in silence for a time, but then Rosencrantz began to chuckle. "This amuses you, does it?" Hardin muttered. Was the man mad? Or just a fool?

"Quite."

"I doubt that Sydney will find it amusing."

"It is not impossible," Rosencrantz replied, folding his upraised hands behind his head as lazily as if he were out for a pleasant afternoon stroll. "But I agree - I doubt very much that he will be amused." He chuckled again, and Hardin watched him warily on the walk back to Leá Monde. The other men too remained silent and watchful. So much for the time away from their worries.

Upon arrival at the city, they didn't have far to go - Sydney was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs into the cellar. Arms crossed over his chest, fixing the men and their captive with a cold stare, he definitely did not seem amused. His eyes met Hardin's for a moment, and the look Hardin saw there made him very glad that he was not in Rosencrantz's position. A glance at the man showed him unconcerned, still with the hint of a smile. Certainly he was mad.

Hardin prodded him ungently with the tip of his sword as he looked to Sydney once more. "It is just as I suspected. We happened to catch him meeting with the Blades in secret, to pass information."

Sydney hesitated in his response, as if he were trying to find just the right words, and Rosencrantz spoke up with a shrug. "What defense could I offer?" he said, his smile growing wider and more amused as he addressed Sydney. "Caught in the act, I'm afraid..."

Even the look that Sydney gave him in response didn't seem to faze him. Hardin couldn't say the same when Sydney turned the look on him. "You may all lower your weapons," Sydney told them. "Rosencrantz has been communicating with the Blades at my request."

There was a silent moment of surprise before the men obeyed, with a few nervous chuckles as reality began to sink in. Some glanced at Hardin, who still could not believe what he was hearing. "...I was not informed of this," he stated, with a questioning look at Sydney.

"It was a delicate operation," Sydney answered. "The less who knew, the better. I suggest that everyone now present forget that this happened at all."

"This never happened," Kermiak agreed, with another sheepish glance at Hardin, who was now completely confused. He would have felt embarrassed, having made such a significant mistake in front of his men and in front of Sydney, had he believed it was a mistake at all. There were too many details of the conversation - which he alone had heard - that suggested Rosencrantz had betrayed them, even if Sydney _had_ intended to use him as a spy.

"But Sydney!" he protested, stepping forward. "I heard him speak-"

"Enough, Hardin," Sydney said firmly.

"Will you not let me finish? I-"

"I am aware of the situation," Sydney said, slowly and dangerously.

"He _has_ betrayed us!" Hardin insisted. "He admitted to-"

He was cut off this time not by Sydney's words, but by a sudden sharp pain and the sound of metal against bone, as Sydney backhanded him across the face. From one with ordinary hands, it would have been no more than a forceful rebuke, but when delivered by Sydney's hand...

"The rest of you may go," Sydney said, never taking his eyes from Hardin's. "We will speak later, Rosencrantz. I have other matters to deal with at the moment."

"I see." The others, as they disappeared, regarded Sydney and Hardin with worried looks - except for Aiden, who gave him a sympathetic look that Hardin found all the more frustrating. Rosencrantz, however, gave him a smirk. "It would seem that someone needs to learn his place."

Hardin tensed, the urge to strike the man nearly overwhelming. Sydney held him fast with his eyes, though he spared a meaningful look at Rosencrantz. "Hardin knows his place well," he said. "You would do well to remember yours."

"Of course." Unaffected by the suggestion, Rosencrantz followed the rest with a small bow for Sydney. Hardin had a feeling that his men would be apologizing for the misunderstanding, which was a thought that did not please him.

Meanwhile, he and Sydney were left alone, and Sydney's glare still left him near paralyzed. He did lift a hand to his cheek - the blow had left him rattled, and he was sure that he was bleeding.

Finally, Sydney turned away, and muttered a few words of command. At once the two of them stood not in the cellar, but in the bedchamber they had shared until recently. Hardin suspected that he would not be sleeping there that night.

"Did I not tell you to leave the matter in my hands?" asked Sydney, his voice at last betraying his anger as he stalked the length of the room. "I can only thank the gods that you had enough sense not to slay the knights!"

With his cheek still stinging, Hardin was reluctant to speak again, but he had to defend himself. "...What was I to do, Sydney?" he began cautiously. "When I see with my own eyes someone speaking to our enemies..."

"You knew the matter to be complicated, in this instance. Had you come to me, we could have avoided this unpleasantness, and you would not have looked the fool in front of your men." Sydney stopped pacing and turned to him once more, eyes flashing. "You could have ruined everything with your disobedience!"

Rather than continuing to defend his own actions, Hardin decided to get to the point. "I heard him admit his responsibility for the attempt on my life."

"And as I said, I am aware of the situation. I said I would handle it, and I have."

"Yet you continue to trust him? Knowing that once already he has betrayed us?"

"I made it abundantly clear to him that my mercy has its limits, and he has reached them. I believe him to be intelligent enough not to tempt me."

He _believed_ , did he? Hardin found this to be ridiculous. "If you needed a double agent, Sydney, surely you could have found another. Someone whose loyalties would be clear to you..."

"If it were I who made the decision to take on Rosencrantz, yes," said Sydney impatiently, stopping Hardin short with another stare. "It was not I, but the Dark who chose Rosencrantz as one of us. The gods have confirmed that he is important. Shall I go against their wishes, and not take advantage of what they have provided for us?"

Sydney's words brought to mind a conversation that he had overheard - a conversation that he'd nearly forgotten in the midst of everything else. Though he feared the answer, he knew he must ask. "... _How_ is he important, Sydney? For what purpose do you keep a viper who has already struck at our heels?"

Though clearly understanding what Hardin was asking, Sydney answered only what he had said aloud. "...I know not." Despite the admission, his determination wavered not at all.

"They've not told you?"

"Not yet. I am only to obey. As are you, if you can recall your oath. You are mine."

This was true... and yet Hardin had the feeling that Sydney was not telling him everything. Was it fair to be angry about this, when it seemed that the gods were not telling Sydney everything either? Even so, only the look in Sydney's eye, coupled with the ache that lingered at Hardin's temple, kept Hardin from responding as he wished. "...I understand," he mumbled, wishing he could lower his eyes. Sydney's gaze was too intense... and gods, why did he have to look so beautiful when he was furious? It was more than fear or loyalty that kept Hardin rooted to the spot.

Perhaps this was as Sydney willed it, for abruptly he stepped forward. Still aware of the pain from being struck before, Hardin began to back away, but this time Sydney's hand rose to the back of his neck, pulling him down into an unexpected and none too gentle kiss. Hardin made a quiet, surprised mumble in protest, but Sydney held him fast. The cold blades against his skin made him shudder, but as much from discomfort as pleasurable anticipation. He could not do this, not now. He was too angry, particularly when he realized what Sydney was doing, pressing in closer. This would _not_ set everything right - it would not set _anything_ right, for he knew that it had never meant much to Sydney at all. Hardin had never deluded himself into thinking that _this_ was what had set him apart. Neither had it been what kept him obedient.

Smaller though he was, Sydney managed to maneuver Hardin up against the wall. Hardin made another muffled sound as his shoulders made impact, quickly followed by a groan as Sydney's fingers bit in. Even so, he tried to turn his head away. "Sydn-"

As always, Sydney was overwhelming, his persistence not allowing Hardin to give voice to his protest. He'd managed to get a knee between Hardin's, and the length of his body held Hardin against the wall as, deprived of Hardin's mouth, Sydney explored his throat instead with lips and teeth. Hardin's hands clenched on Sydney's shoulders before doing as he'd intended for them to do, grasping and pushing their upper bodies apart. "S-Sydney," he gasped, all the more ashamed at how desperate his voice sounded, rather than angry. He tried to push himself upright, instead of sagging against the wall. " _Stop_ this."

"And why should I stop?" Sydney murmured breathlessly, still pressing their hips together. "...Even were you not mine... I know very well that you enjoy this."

"...I..." The claws of one hand were tantalizingly cold and sharp against Hardin's side, even through his shirt. He resisted the urge to move against them. "...This is not what I want."

"No...?" Sydney smirked, and the claws twitched, making Hardin take a sharp breath.

"...No..." Not like this, not now. Not when it was coersion - nearly bribery!

His body said otherwise, and he couldn't quite bring himself to stop Sydney from leaning in again, murmuring against his neck. "I thought we'd passed this, Hardin. I know what you want."

Sharp teeth closed on Hardin's collarbone, simultaneous with Sydney's hips moving against his, and he had to stifle a cry. Sydney was clearly not going to take no for an answer, and there was no way around the fact that his body wanted it, even though his mind may not. It wouldn't change anything... whatever Sydney intended to do to him, he would do it, and then Sydney would be pleased with him again. Things could return to normal. "...Yes," he whispered, letting himself sag against the wall once more.

For some reason, Sydney paused at the word, and only then did Hardin have a moment to consider what he'd just said. ...When had 'no' last been the truth, and 'yes' the lie? Why was he so willing to please Sydney, when Sydney had not been giving him what he most desired?

All of a sudden, the pressure against his body lessened, as Sydney pushed himself off from the wall - and vanished. Eyes wide, still breathing heavily, Hardin slowly lowered himself to the floor and put his head in his hands for a moment to steady himself.

...Sydney had heard that, hadn't he?

Hardin shook his head, trying to clear it. This was not good. Self-absorbed as Sydney could be, he'd always known that there was more to him than that. He'd been told long ago that Sydney would not pursue those who did not want to be pursued... and if Hardin no longer wished for that sort of pursuit...

Of course he did. No one had ever done such things to him as Sydney, no one had been so fascinating, or had known just what to do to him. As the aching of his body now testified, he still wanted Sydney badly.

But then, a man's body could want a great many things that were not helpful. As Aiden had said, there were those who had no shame about indulging them anyhow... but there were those, like Hardin, who required more.

Sydney hadn't given him more for some time. Instead, he'd been given indifference, impatience, anger...

At first, Hardin had thought to go after Sydney, to find him and bring him back. But then... that was an instinct. Instincts could be suppressed in the face of logic, and logic was currently asking him why he would go after Sydney, after the way he had been treated today.

Once Hardin's breath had evened out, and he could stand straight again, he got to his feet and walked out of the room. No, he would not be sleeping there tonight. Unless something changed, perhaps not again.  


* * *

Sydney hadn't intended to send himself to the great temple, particularly. It had been instinct that had taken him there by the magic... or perhaps it had not been so random a choice after all. Perhaps there had been a nudge in that direction on the part of the gods - a reminder, Sydney thought as he paced before the altar, of who he served. Of whose companionship he _truly_ required, regardless of his dalliance with mortal man.

Either way, he could not have said that his destination had been by his will. No, he had panicked. For the second time that afternoon, no less.

Hardin had had the right to resist, of course, but he'd never before exercised it. This time, he had wanted to. And yet, he hadn't. He'd given in, against his wishes, and left the decision in Sydney's hands. Curse the man and his honor! Sydney was unsure which troubled him most - that Hardin had wanted him to leave him be, or that he had submitted to Sydney anyhow.

His surroundings calming him, Sydney took a deep breath and considered the matter. Neither should have troubled him at all, logically speaking. The gods required willing servants, and obedience was obedience whether offered to the gods themselves or through an intermediary. This had not been about the gods, granted, but self-denial was to be admired in a sworn man. As for the other...

What need had he for Hardin's desire? True that he was no longer able to fool himself into thinking that Hardin was no different to him than any other consort he'd ever taken, but it mattered not when all would come to an end. Soon, at that; he'd received a message from the ducal manor just that morning. The old Duke's health was failing at last...

Sydney found himself sighing, almost in relief, at a much-needed epiphany, unpleasant as it was. In light of everything else that loomed large in the near future, the prospect of losing Hardin's companionship was the smallest of sorrows. He'd considered many times putting more distance between them, solely so that it would be less painful for them both in the end, when the inevitable claimed them.

The prospect of losing his expertise - losing his strong swordarm, his knowledge of those who opposed him, his firm will - was far more troubling. Such a thing could not be permitted, for Hardin was required by the gods just as Rosencrantz was.

What had happened today was not enough to send Hardin away, fortunately. If it were, no doubt Sydney would have found himself holding audience with a very displeased Lady. The situation might turn itself into something more dire, though, if he did not exert control.

Indeed, a lack of control had been what made the situation so precarious now. Sydney wished that he could say that he'd struck Hardin willingly, to make an example in front of Rosencrantz that no one was allowed to show him insolence.

That was what Sydney would have liked to be able to give as an explanation. In all honesty, he had simply panicked. If Hardin had voiced his evidence before his most trusted men, men who were nearly as loyal to him as they were to Sydney, questions may have arisen which Sydney could not yet answer. The illusion of his grand plan would have been shattered. It was far more advantageous for the incident with Rosencrantz to appear nothing more than a mistake.

And now, it was going to require a great deal of diplomacy to ensure that nothing more came of it, to make sure that the careful balance was not upset. Rosencrantz, already having decided that Hardin was his rival for the legacy, would consider this a victory. Those who had witnessed the scene were trustworthy enough that they would not speak of it, but Sydney's momentary lapse of control towards Hardin would leave them uncertain. As for Hardin himself, Sydney already knew the conflicts of anger and shame and fear in his heart. The brethren must know that Hardin's place was not diminished in his sights, and Hardin must know as well. Sydney thought he knew how he could say such without it sounding as if he were granting Hardin forgiveness, as if Hardin _should_ have lost his favor. Perhaps he could spread the word among the brethren at the same time.

Which left Rosencrantz. He should know too that Hardin had not lost his place... but then again, it might be better to let Rosencrantz think what he would. Would he be tamer, or more unruly, if he believed himself to have gained ground where Hardin had lost? Sydney would think upon it.

He would think upon it sooner than he expected, in fact, for he was spared the trouble of dealing with Hardin that night. Hardin did not return to their quarters, nor did he seem to be anywhere within the keep. Still nearby, for Sydney's attempts to sense him returned a deep, stern determination nearby, imperfectly paving over the undercurrents of anxiety. If not for that, Sydney would have been worried - Hardin had always returned after an argument.

It was much less uncomfortable for Sydney to lie awake and consider what to do about Rosencrantz, than to lie awake and consider whether it should bother him so much not to know whether or not Hardin was ever going to return.


	10. Chapter 10

He was doing the right thing. Surely he was. Hardin had told himself this same thing many times during the past few days, though his questioning continued. How could it not, when he'd chosen to spend his time in solitude?

It may well have been cowardice, Hardin admitted... No, there was no 'may well have been' - it _was_ cowardice. Not only did he want to avoid Sydney, and of course Rosencrantz, but also anyone else who had witnessed their exchange. The others had been told to say nothing of what they'd caught Rosencrantz at, so they would not mention that mistake. Neither would they be likely to speak of the way Sydney had rebuked him, but that didn't matter. Even if they did not say a word, they had seen it, and the air would be thick with the unasked questions.

The same would happen if they found him sleeping in the barracks again, or in fact anywhere apart from Sydney's bedchamber. Therefore, Hardin had taken it upon himself to keep watch on the cellar again from the woods nearby, knowing the Blades were now aware of their ritual, a fortuitous time to mount an attack. Should they send out a scouting party, the first phase, Hardin would dispose of them quickly. He'd set magical snares and tripwires throughout the area, so that by day he could seek out more game to supplement the feast that was to take place, and by night he could sleep in a place where no one would find him to comment upon it. It was cowardice, but some good could be made of it.

No one had tripped any of his alarms until the second evening, while he was cooking a small portion of the day's catch for his own dinner. Feeling the burst of energy, undetectable to all but himself, he had scryed the location. No need to worry - it was only Aiden, bringing a message from Sydney. Sydney wanted to know if Hardin intended to take part in the seasonal rituals, Aiden had said, or if he should find another.

Hardin had held the element of earth in such rituals for the past few years, standing at Sydney's right hand as he represented the Dark. It was not a position he particularly wanted to be in at the moment, especially knowing how the magic affected Sydney - the two of them frequently spent such feast days having their fill of each other, rather than food. If that was what Sydney wanted... then he would oblige, if Sydney could stand this time to ignore the words of his heart. The thought only kindled Hardin's anger again.

On the other hand, the ritual itself had nothing to do with Sydney, or the tension between them. It was merely part of the role he played in their brotherhood, an offering to the gods they all served. There was no reason _not_ to fulfill his usual duties just because he was angry with Sydney.

After considering, Hardin agreed. It was only a small request, after all. Admittedly, it would have been nice if Sydney himself had come to ask him, but Hardin had to admit that unless Sydney had brought at least an apology as well, he would not have been pleased to see him at the moment.

Aiden hesitated, as if he'd wanted to say something more before he returned to the city. "If there is something you wish to say," Hardin told him, seeing the conflict in his eyes, "you may as well speak. Unless it is about what happened two days past."

Aiden looked mildly guilty, and Hardin sighed. "I suspected as much."

"...No, not exactly. As he instructed me, I said nothing of it - but when he called me to him, he told me that none of us had lost favor in his eyes because of it, including you. It was an honest mistake, born from our zeal for protecting our brethren, and he is glad to have such vigilance at his command."

Hardin had meant the other part of what had happened, mostly, but he'd rather not have called attention to it. "...It would have been better to hear it from his own mouth."

"He also told me," Aiden added, somewhat more hesitantly, "that he knew of what I'd proposed the night before. No doubt he read the uncertainty in my heart."

"...He did, did he." That might have explained a great deal of what had happened, Hardin thought.

Or perhaps not. "He reassured me that he was not angry. If you found pleasure in me, then why would he deny you such? He has no claim to you beyond your oath."

That was exactly what Hardin would have expected Sydney to say, were he in a particularly bitter mood, which he was. The next part was more of a surprise, however.

"...He also said that even so, it was a foolish thing to ask. That you would consider it akin to treason, for your loyalty runs too deep, and would therefore never accept."

This was nearly the same reason Hardin had given himself, absent one particular word, but hearing that Sydney had spoken so on his behalf irritated him somehow. "...That may be true," he muttered. "But then, it may not."

Aiden threw him a sudden, sharp glance, and Hardin realized the implication he'd unwittingly offered with his ambivalence. He had no idea how to deny such a thing, or indeed if he wanted to. "It matters not. Go and tell him I shall take my place before dawn on the morrow - there is no need for another."

Aiden nodded. "I only wanted to make my apologies, Hardin, if I had offended you by asking. 'Twas not my intention."

"You did not offend me," Hardin replied, shaking his head. "I was merely surprised. I see no reason to be offended by such suggestions, offered with good will."

"Hmm..." At last, Aiden smiled slightly. "...Then perhaps I shall not offend you on some other day, should you continue to look so melancholy."

Hardin blinked, and Aiden smiled more broadly as he bowed his head respectfully and turned to make his way back into Leá Monde.  


* * *

The next day, Hardin returned to the city and his fellows in the early morning, hours before dawn, having slept little. He would need to avail himself of the baths and a razor before he appeared at the ritual, he supposed, after a few days in the forest, and he would rather do this before most of the others woke. He did not care to have any attention drawn to his presence. Unfortunately, his presence was made conspicuous by his recent absence, and at his appearing, Duncan and Kermiak immediately came to greet him with good cheer and questions regarding his whereabouts. Hardin shrugged them off with vague answers about hunting, and needing to bathe before the ritual gave him a convenient excuse to duck out before the conversation progressed to more than small talk.

The others who were to hold the elements during the ritual were pleased to see him back as well, but they had little time to talk, as they donned the white ceremonial robes and began their preparation. Despite his disinclination to discuss his doings with anyone, Hardin supposed that it was nice enough to know that he'd been missed, but mostly he wondered if one specific person would be glad to see him.

Hardin knew his routine all too well after years together. Sydney would have spent most of the night in meditation and prayer, sometimes atop the city walls if the weather permitted. The night had been cold, however, so more likely he'd spent it in the temple. As always, he appeared shortly before the appointed time, with an unearthly serenity and encouraging words for all who were to take part in the ritual, each individually.

As always, he was smiling a distracted smile by the time he came to Hardin. "It was good of you to join us," he said, and aside from the light of the gods' presence, Hardin saw no warmth in his eyes. "There are none here stronger in earth than you."

...That was all? "As the gods require of me," Hardin replied evenly, with no warmth of his own, "so shall I do."

The distracted smile faltered so slightly that Hardin was likely the only one who could have seen it. "A commendable attitude," was all Sydney said in response, and moved on to another. Hardin closed his eyes, held his tongue, and spoke no more until it was required.

The next words he needed to speak were few and ceremonial, in the tongue of a long-dead people, and he did his best to focus his attention on the gods and their providence, the miracle and mystery of the seasons. It was difficult with Sydney standing there, speaking with grace the words that felt clumsy on Hardin's own tongue, until the sacred fire was ablaze and the sun arisen, signaling the ritual's end.

That was the signal, too, that he could speak again, and Duncan found him quickly afterwards, as Hardin was still deciding what to do with the rest of the day. Duncan's invitation to go down to the shore, fishing and relaxing, with a few of the others would have been appealing, had Hardin thought he could tolerate a day of casual conversation, especially one that carefully tread a path around a few select subjects which no one dared to speak of. Instead, he excused himself by saying that he'd not slept well, and would like to catch up.

"Ah, makes sense," Duncan agreed. "Ye wouldn't be missin' the dance later, nor the feast, no? Best to be rested for the real holiday to come."

...There was no way for him to gracefully avoid the evening's festivities, was there? The thought of the ritual dance, watching Sydney move around the fire... He knew the effect that it had on him, and usually it was not a problem, for Sydney was willing to indulge it - with that knowing, smug smirk that showed his pleasure over his being able to cause such a reaction. Just imagining it was arousing, and at the moment annoying. If Sydney tried to manipulate him in _that_ way, Hardin was uncertain that he could resist.

His annoyance, however, might be enough to help in that regard, and it was expected of him to attend. "Of course." At least he'd be spared from a day of trying to make conversation. And truthfully, he was tired of being alone with his thoughts. The feast would do him good, if he could manage to collect himself enough to withstand the noise, after calm days alone in the woods.

And in the meantime, he could sleep. He was irritated with himself, however, when he found himself heading for Sydney's quarters within the keep, just out of habit. It was a tempting thought, to lie down and just sleep in the bed that they'd shared, as if he had as much right to be there as Sydney. He wondered if Sydney would agree, then had the thought that Sydney would not likely be there to notice. When Sydney was in his bed on feast days, it was usually because Hardin was there with him.

...Would he take another to his bed now, if Hardin did not present himself? Hardin quashed the thought, and the accompanying urge to scrye on Sydney's whereabouts, and made for the barracks. It was a far safer place to seek rest.  


* * *

He was not the only one who intended to spend half the day in slumber; there were plenty among their number who cared not for rising before dawn, and had gone right back to bed after the ritual had concluded. The room was therefore quiet, and the beds blessedly soft after having spent the past few nights on the ground - an ideal environment for sleep, and one which he was glad to take advantage of.

Upon rising, everything seemed to be more tolerable - the troubles weighing on him, the task of conversing with his fellows, even the prospect of the ritual dance that evening, though he had to pause for a moment to be certain. In fact, the thought of encountering Sydney at all didn't bother him so much. The time away and a few hours of true rest must have been just what he'd needed. Now that he was firmly in control of himself once more, even if Sydney were to give him such a look as was his habit, staring deep into him...

...It was Sydney, Hardin admitted to himself with some embarrassment. He might be able to resist, but not easily. Sydney would know this, and would likely take advantage of it as always. Unless... No, a moment of scrying revealed that he was indeed in his bed, but alone and asleep.

The Sight lingered longer than he'd intended, showing how Sydney lay flat upon his stomach, blankets and sheets only half covering the dark mark upon his bare back, and the thin line of pale skin and flaxen hair that glowed with what little sunlight peeked through the drapes. It was as though Hardin were standing there beside him - and had his arm been an arm of flesh, he would not have been able to resist the urge to reach out a hand to trace the sleek line of his back.

Perhaps the night's dancing would not be so uncomplicated as he'd thought. Eager for distraction, Hardin scryed Duncan instead, and just as he'd expected, found that they were indeed still down at the shoreline. He might as well join them, for what daylight remained.

It was a relief to find that not all on the day's outing had been a part of their hunt; those who had been would not say a word about anything that had happened, not where others could hear. It was a relief, too, to be greeted so warmly, with no concern or question beyond his whereabouts for the past few days. Hardin replied that he'd been needing time alone before the holiday for meditation, to make sure that his heart was right. Some of the men nodded thoughtfully, agreeing that it was a noble cause... And then Kermiak remarked that perhaps more meditation would give Duncan the clarity of mind to get a fish on his hook, and that put a stop to any further serious conversation.

His excuse was close enough to the reality that no one questioned why Hardin's fellowship was quieter and more subdued even than his usual. In truth, despite the cheerful and sometimes noisy company, his mind couldn't help drifting from time to time. What was he doing, exactly, by avoiding Sydney? What was he hoping to accomplish? Sydney didn't need him, and therefore it would solve nothing but to drive them further apart. Perhaps he'd been overly harsh, when Sydney's behavior hadn't been particularly unusual for him. ...Perhaps that was exactly why he was being harsh. Even so, he didn't want much from Sydney, and it would take little to satisfy him to the point where they could put this behind them. Only... some understanding, instead of distance. That was all Hardin wanted.

If he was the one who continued to put distance between them, he acknowledged, he would indeed save himself from further hurt - but also remove all hope of reconciliation. He must appear at the fire that night, then. _If this has come to an end, then it will not be my fault,_ he thought to himself with determination. The anger behind that determination made him uncertain of whether or not he meant it.  


* * *

The ritual of dance was always an anticipated event, both for those who took part and for those who watched. This year, with the women having been sent away to safer havens, many of those who watched as the dancers wove their tapestry of movement would not find it quite so compelling. Most of the men among them did not share Sydney's taste.

And Hardin's as well? He couldn't be sure, for he'd thought only of Sydney for so long, it was difficult to imagine himself with anyone else, male or female. There was one woman in particular who he was sure he would once have taken an interest in, but before long he'd come to think of her more as a friend, perhaps even a sister, rather than a potential mate. As for men, he'd not thought about any other in such a way, until Aiden had suggested it. The thought had intrigued him, momentarily, but perhaps it had more to do with the nature of his proposal - nothing more than a moment of closeness, after which their lives would go on as they had. It was not Hardin's way in the least.

The dance was indeed different without the women, with the fire's light lending its illumination to naught but taller, more muscular bodies, some marred by the scars of old battle wounds. The fighters of Müllenkamp moved with a different sort of grace than the women - the grace of talented swordsmen in a duel, of beasts sizing each other up before an attack. It was less a dance of kinship and joy with just the men, somehow seeming more primal, even predatorial. To Hardin's surprise, he spotted Rosencrantz among the dancers, and the light steps of his feet reminded Hardin of a great cat, padding silently through the jungle after its prey. But of course - as a Riskbreaker, he must have been able to discipline his body, teach it to move exactly how it should.

As always, the music of the flutes gradually ceased, and with them the dancers, until only the beat of the drums accompanied the one who still remained before the fire. Sydney and their Lady, he had told Hardin long ago, shared a strange relationship. She was no goddess, but she remained to watch over them and guide them even so - and because she was no goddess, aspects of her continued to be very much human. She found Sydney interesting, she loved the dance. She enjoyed it when Sydney danced for her, and with her.

The first time Hardin had witnessed the ritual, he had seen the Lady appear in the fire. He'd been told that not everyone could see her, and not every time, but that she was always there. She revealed herself to a select few, those whose hope and faith were running out, as a sign that she still watched over them, that she knew what they needed and would provide.

Hardin had thought, all things considered, that he might see her this time. But no, Sydney stood alone in the center of the courtyard, glints of flame and spark sparkling off his fingertips as he raised his arms. This too might be a sign, Hardin thought. A sign that he needed no hope, that everything was fine as it was. It wasn't a comforting thought, if so.

The way that Sydney smiled as he gazed into the fire always made it clear that he enjoyed this ritual as much as his Lady. Hardin found himself remembering what Aiden had said, about Sydney not loving as mortal men, for he'd gone beyond. It was much like what Sydney had said of Müllenkamp. Not all of her high priests were so close to her as he was, but he was a different sort of priest - few had been granted immortality. His coming had been an omen of change, so the brethren had said. Hardin wondered if perhaps Aiden had been half-right, if Sydney was something more like Müllenkamp than a deity, but no longer entirely human despite a few remaining facets that made him appear so.

If that was the case, Hardin couldn't fault Sydney for being as he was. But then, couldn't he have _told_ him? Whatever and whoever Sydney was, he knew the thoughts Hardin never spoke of, and never had he given confirmation or denial. He knew what Hardin wanted, and continued to hold it just out of Hardin's reach, but never said that it was useless to go on hoping. Even if it was, even if their relationship had been built on such a perilous foundation, Sydney would have _known_ \- and he had let Hardin go on believing.

It was not until the dance ended, and those around him began to rise, that Hardin realized that he'd not been tempted in the slightest, distracted as he was by anger. That in itself left him shocked and shamed.

One more chance, he thought, spotting Sydney from across the courtyard and rising to his feet. He must have heard all that was on Hardin's heart, and Hardin was willing to give him just one more chance. Their eyes met, and Hardin held his breath.

 _...Tell me what you are..._

The breath Hardin held turned to a stone in his chest as Sydney turned away and disappeared into the crowd.  


* * *

The feast too had a different atmosphere without the women - rougher and rowdier. Drink flowed more freely, less care was taken to keep the conversations from becoming coarse. The tables remained occupied late into the evening, for few were sneaking off to be alone with a lover.

Hardin was not enjoying the merriment so much as his companions. Having little appetite for food, and less for conversation, he remained in their company mostly because he knew better than to think that he could get away from his thoughts. At least here he had distraction. A few drinks had taken the edge off, allowed him to let the conversation wash over him peacefully rather than irritate him. Sitting there surrounded by noise and good cheer, while none of it touched him - it was a bit like meditation. He was far from drunk, however, as he knew from experience that it did little good, and often made things worse. No, he was only numb.

His thoughts were of Sydney, of course. Of what could become of them now, what never could, and just how tired he was of trying when Sydney did not seem to try at all. Of Sydney's whereabouts, for he was not present, and once again he was unable to scrye his location. Although no women remained among them, there were still a few who might have stolen away for a private meeting. Sydney's absence seemed particularly suspicious in that light.

Since he could not scrye Sydney, Hardin tried to seek out others who had been Sydney's consorts in the past, in case he could be given an answer secondhand. Dennys was still in the commons. Gwynn was... After a moment's shock at what the Dark showed him, Hardin realized that Gwynn had apparently managed to seduce Kieran after all. Hardin quickly tried to think of someone else to scrye instead, for the sight was too compelling - he'd become accustomed to this as a part of the holiday, and he did miss it terribly - and the one who came to mind, annoyingly enough, was Rosencrantz, though he'd never been one of Sydney's. He could not scrye Rosencrantz, which troubled him, but... he wouldn't, would he?

Hardin tried to remember who else might have been with Sydney in the past, though few still remained from the days before his arrival, so many had fallen to the king's men or the cardinal's. There was Aiden, of course, he remembered. Aiden was... right behind him, or would be soon.

He turned his head to look up as Aiden drew near. "You seem to have much on your mind," Aiden observed, taking a seat at Hardin's otherwise empty table, which had been abandoned for more talkative company some time back.

"Nothing worth mentioning."

"You've scarce said a word all evening," Aiden noted, lowering his voice. "Normally, the reason we hear nothing from you on feast nights is because you've found something else to do, or so I'd assume... The incident the other day did not end well, did it?"

"I'd prefer not to speak of it," Hardin said sharply. He'd been able to keep the talk from getting on his nerves, but only so long as it was not directed at him.

"...As you wish," Aiden agreed, and he fell silent. Only for a short time, though. "I warned you, did I not?"

"And did I not say that I would not speak of it?" Hardin growled.

"I speak of naught to do with Sydney," Aiden clarified, and Hardin found the small smile worrisome. Suddenly he knew what Aiden was referring to, but he said it anyhow. "I warned you that if your melancholy persisted, I might have to approach you again with certain suggestions."

Hardin said nothing, but merely thought. The vision he had seen only moments ago, of Gwynn and Kieran, was still fresh in his mind. Fresh, and extremely compelling. Two ordinary men, pleasing each other. Pleasing themselves. No mind games, no power struggles, no blood drawn. Although Hardin had learned that he enjoyed such things, much to his shame, the thought of stripping it all away and leaving only raw mutual pleasure had an appeal at the moment.

Aiden, watching him, abruptly grew more serious. "As you have yet to tell me nay, I can only assume you to be considering it this time."

"...I am... considering it," Hardin agreed gruffly. It was less an admission than a confirmation.

Aiden appeared to be unable to decide between amazement or sympathy. "Have you decided, then," he asked, "that I was correct about Sydney?"

"No," Hardin replied firmly. "On the contrary, I've decided that you were wrong - he does not know us so well as you believe he does. At the least, he does not know me."

"...Which means...?"

Hardin had known what he meant even before the cautious smile spread across Aiden's lips, but he still couldn't say it in so many words. "...Where? Not in the barracks, I imagine."

Aiden shook his head. "There are many places in the town for a man to hide, or even for two. Surely you were not unaware."

"I was not." Now that Hardin was thinking about it, there were many empty buildings, grassy knolls tucked away beside the rift in the earth, shadowed corners... He'd never considered making use of them for this purpose, seeing as Sydney had a private room.

"At the end of the Rue Sant d'Alsa," Aiden suggested, "there is a soft bit of earth behind a wall, not easily spotted by one who is not looking, and made much more palatable with a few blankets. It may be a bit cold, but did we not agree that a cold night on the ground is made better with company?"

Hardin nodded, quick and curt. He didn't want to think about it, now that he had decided. "I shall meet you there shortly."

"Myself, and the blankets," agreed Aiden. "I have but to gather a few things, and then I will go."

"Very good."

Aiden began to stand up, then hesitated and looked back. "And to be clear... this is for our pleasure, nothing more."

"Nothing more," Hardin echoed, and Aiden looked satisfied as he left. Nothing more, Hardin thought... except bitterness. Except evidence that Sydney did not control him, though he may own him. For Aiden, though, it would be pleasure, to the best of Hardin's ability. For himself...?

Hardin tried to imagine lying with Aiden. Not that the man was unattractive, in the least, but... being atop him, being inside him, or vice versa. Touching, and being touched. ...By hands of flesh. Someone other than Sydney, someone unlike Sydney.

He'd been right to tell Aiden to go on ahead - Hardin was going to need another drink or two to be able to cope with this.  


* * *

Sydney had vacated the feast early on, and for what purpose? To sit in his room and watch the wine as it swirled lazily in his cup, it would seem. He was not at all in the mood for raucous celebration, feasting and toasting and all that went along with it. The brethren reveled in the occasion as if there would not be another. Sydney knew that this was all too likely.

Still, he would have been able to muster up enough enthusiasm to join them, had not Hardin remained. Though Sydney had tried to focus solely on the dance, Hardin's dissatisfaction had radiated more heat than the fire. No admiration, no lust - just a sad, jaded frustration. Hardin's heart had been repeating all the arguments that Sydney himself had used as defense when his own heart got carried away. Was he an ordinary man? Certainly not. He belonged to the gods, not their creations. This was what he'd wanted his partner to understand. He'd known, however, that it would hurt Hardin to accept it. He could not have stood for sitting in the commons with the others when _that_ was present.

It was better this way. Much better for Hardin to have come to these conclusions on his own, rather than being rebuffed. He would, Sydney thought idly, have to think up some subtle way to reward Aiden for planting the seeds that he could not.

Then again, Sydney realized abruptly some time later, Aiden might have found his own reward. On a moment's whim, Sydney had tried to sense Hardin, the state of his heart. It would not be pleasant, he knew this, but how bad might it be? It wouldn't do for Hardin to do anything rash...

What he sensed from Hardin was not at all what he'd expected. There was anger, to be sure, but flaring into hatred - and entwined with it was ecstasy and desperation of a sort that Sydney knew well. As it was Hardin, there was also shame and self-loathing over what he was doing, so strong as to nearly overwhelm the positive sensations, but it served to fan the flames higher.

Sydney stopped his scrying at once, and poured himself more wine. It was better this way, for both himself and Hardin. And that was that.


	11. Chapter 11

Hardin remained unconvinced that he would be able to let himself do what he had agreed to do, even after another, stronger drink. His suspicion, as he made his way through the dark streets, was that he might need to be near senseless before he could stop himself from having second thoughts.

It was only natural that he should have second thoughts. He'd been with Sydney for a long time, and although their relationship had never been formally acknowledged as having begun, neither had it been formally acknowledged as having ended. It still felt like betrayal, like treason. Sydney had been right about that part of it. Hardin supposed he would get over it, someday.

Further, this was not in his nature. Had his life gone without incident, he'd have been a young lord, likely sought after by many women. There had been more than enough when he'd been only another soldier far from home, during his days in the PeaceGuard. Even then, any courtship had been done properly - no carousing, no whoring. He might have found a young lady who shared his heart on such things, and treated her respectfully... Never had he guessed that he might find himself taking such a shallow road as this. But then, he'd never guessed a great many things about what his life had held thus far.

He would do this, though. To prove it to himself, to prove it to Sydney. There was more to him than what he and Sydney had shared, and life would go on, albeit differently. He could take pleasure in another - he'd even managed to build his determination up to the point where he _wanted_ Aiden. Or someone, at any rate. Imagining how it might be, with nothing between himself and a lover but a mutual desire... His heart shrank away from it, but something deeper craved the raw, primal instinct that such thoughts had awakened.

So distracted was he by his thoughts that when he heard the sound of his name, whispered loudly from an open doorway he was passing by, he simply followed it. Aiden must have found somewhere more comfortable than the ground, he supposed.

He suddenly became more wary when the door closed tight with a click behind him. Aiden was not the type to move so quickly - or without warning, but almost before Hardin could find the other person in the dark, they were upon him, pushing him back against the door with a fierce kiss. That was _certainly_ not the way Aiden would have handled him, and after his initial shock, he began to struggle, trying to find the other person's arms to disentangle himself. Breathing heavily from more than the struggle, Hardin finally managed, and illuminated the room with a word.

...It was none other than Rosencrantz he held almost at arm's length. "Surprised?" inquired the man, with an unkind smirk.

Hardin tried to shove him away, but Rosencrantz gripped his wrists skillfully and pushed him back against the wall. Hardin would have none of it, and threw him off with a shove that would have left most men reeling. Rosencrantz regained his balance effortlessly, much to his annoyance, but at least he had let go. "What are you doing here?" Hardin demanded, somewhat out of breath.

"Something I'm sure you can relate to," Rosencrantz remarked casually, as if they were not . "I overheard a conversation - a conversation which made me believe that _someone_ might be playing Sydney false. Yet in your case, I can't imagine that you're doing so on Sydney's orders, or that he is even aware of what business you might have in town tonight."

...He'd been close by, then, when he and Aiden were speaking. Hardin had not thought to hide their words, when no one about them had seemed to be paying attention to anything but their own conversations. "If he wished to be aware of it, he would be aware of it. He needs not even ask before my heart would give answer."

"Well! So this is open rebellion, is it?" Rosencrantz inquired, tilting his head curiously. "I daresay this tryst of yours should be reported."

"Do as you please," Hardin growled. After working up his courage, this interruption was making him impatient - to say nothing of the heat of the kiss before he'd discovered whose lips had been pressed against his own. "At the moment, you've nothing to report but words."

"Yet I _would_ have had more, had I left you to your path," Rosencrantz mused. "Or would you have turned aside at the last moment? He did tell me that you were his most faithful. It would seem that he believes you to be more faithful than they are. So much for infallibility..."

Hardin fixed him with a hateful look, though Rosencrantz's words cut deep. "You know nothing of Sydney and myself."

"I may not know, but I can imagine." Hardin abruptly found himself being shoved up against the wall again, this time hard enough to make him lose his breath. "I listen to everything, Hardin," Rosencrantz hissed in his ear as he coughed. "They say that you like it rough - that there are shouts in the night, that the bedsheets are often torn and bloodied." There was something against Hardin's wrist, cold and sharp - Rosencrantz was armed, and the tip of the dagger grazed Hardin's skin. Hardin couldn't quite suppress a shudder. "You enjoy pain, don't you, Hardin? You like what those hands can do to you... Such unusual vices, I've heard, can cause a man to be easily controlled."

Hardin was having a very difficult time thinking straight, but he knew he dared not move, not with Rosencrantz armed. In the haze of surprise and anger and conflicting sensation, he wasn't entirely sure whether he was stopping himself from moving away from the blade or into it. "He doesn't control me," he growled.

"Apparently not, or you wouldn't be slipping away for a little rendezvous, would you?" Rosencrantz murmured, and Hardin gasped as the tip of the dagger bit into skin, ever so slightly. "Was your little friend willing to cut you as well? He didn't seem the type."

Rosencrantz's body pressed closer, his breath hot against Hardin's neck. Between this and the teasing with the dagger, Hardin found that his body was enjoying this despite his disgust. That realization was enough to bring him back to his senses, and now it was Rosencrantz's turn to be thrown back against the wall, with a roar of rage from Hardin. " _No one_ touches me like that!" he shouted, his face only inches from Rosencrantz's as he held him pinned. "None but Sydney!"

Rosencrantz seemed unconcerned about the position he was in, though he did wince slightly as Hardin shook him, knocking his head against the wall again. Still, he wore the smirk. "So you were seeking another kind of pleasure, were you? Something more ordinary? All these years, none but your own hands have touched you, is it not so?"

Hardin was suddenly all too aware of Rosencrantz's hands, and how they were placed on his sides, presumably to brace himself for another struggle - or possibly only to grip there, fingers pressing into the small of Hardin's back... sliding down towards his hips. He found himself shuddering, startled by how alien was the sensation of human hands, blunt and safe and warm, touching him where Sydney dared not, below the waist. It was as foreign to him now as Sydney's touch had been at first. Somewhere, deep down, he had obviously not forgotten. His hips tried to buck forward...

With Rosencrantz, though, it made no sense. Their loathing for each other was mutual, he was sure. Yet he could not have imagined this intensity between himself and Aiden, a man with whom he shared mutual respect. He hadn't even been sure that he could have gone through with it in the end. With Rosencrantz, infuriating and untrustworthy...

What better way, Hardin thought in a moment of twisted logic, to vent all his anger? Anger at Rosencrantz, anger at himself, anger at Sydney - anger at Sydney for treating him much the same way.

This time, Rosencrantz lost his smirk as Hardin grabbed him by the shirt and flung him against the adjacent wall. Hardin heard the crack of the man's head hitting brick, but cared not - one advantage was that he could be as rough as he wanted with Rosencrantz, with no guilt. "Do what you will," he growled, glaring at the man.

The smirk returned as Rosencrantz regained his bearings, looking up at Hardin's glare through half-lidded eyes. "...I always do."

There was a metallic clank as the dagger, at last, fell from Rosencrantz's hands.  


* * *

Afterwards, while still sitting in the corner catching his breath, Rosencrantz began to laugh.

Sydney had sometimes laughed afterwards too, long ago - when he was in an especially good mood, or when a poorly thought-out attempt at some new twist had not worked quite as they'd expected, whether it had been better or worse. Even when some such mishap had been Hardin's doing, and he felt a fool, he couldn't help but smile when Sydney laughed, for Sydney's laughter lay the blame at no one's feet. Often enough, it had been good-naturedly aimed at himself, for underestimating what he was capable of.

The way Rosencrantz was laughing was nothing like Sydney's laughter. It was laughter at some private joke he did not wish to share, laughter that mocked. It suggested that everything had gone just as he'd planned.

Hardin froze, realizing just what sort of trap he'd willingly fallen into. Then, with one last glare of disgust, he gathered his clothes and left Rosencrantz to his mirth.

He wasn't sure what he wanted to do now. Oblivion, or at least unconsciousness, sounded appealing. There was one thing he _needed_ to do before even thinking of what came next, and that was wash. He was a mess, and in more ways than one. He would be bruised tomorrow. So would Rosencrantz, but no doubt he would make good use of them as evidence for his case.

Not wanting to cross paths with anyone at the moment, Hardin decided that cold river water would have to be good enough. If anyone happened to see him washing in the river in the middle of the night, they would likely be in such a state that they would think nothing of it. Or it would be Rosencrantz, and in regards to Rosencrantz, Hardin supposed that not much more damage could be done. Rosencrantz had clearly intended to report what he was doing, and no doubt a firsthand account of Hardin's infidelity suited his purpose even better than simply catching Hardin about to act. Hardin could scarcely bring himself to care anymore. He wouldn't have been able to hide it from Sydney if he had been with Aiden, and he wouldn't have cared. Did it make any difference if it was Rosencrantz instead?

Either way, and whichever reaction Sydney might have to this news, he'd damned himself. If Sydney cared not, as Hardin suspected, then nothing would get better. If there had been anything left between himself and Sydney, as Rosencrantz seemed to believe, then he'd destroyed it. ...If there _had_ been anything left, Hardin reminded himself, Sydney could have saved it, and he had chosen otherwise. This was not his fault. The guilt overwhelmed him anyway.

Guilt, and disgust. He might not have been bothered so much by the lingering memories of hands - real hands, warm and harmless, if unfamiliar - if those hands hadn't belonged to Rosencrantz. Instead of just washing up, Hardin decided he'd do better to simply wade in and immerse himself in the river. It was cold, yes, but after the initial moment of shock, Hardin could bear it. Sydney had taught him how, long ago. ...Sydney had taught him to bear many things. Though there was a dark part of his soul that suggested that now his oath might be most easily fulfilled by falling on his sword, Hardin shut it away. He could bear this too.

Despite the chill in the air and the heightened discomfort that came from being out in it with wet hair, Hardin didn't return to the keep once he'd finished bathing. He simply dressed himself and sat down against what remained of an ancient wall nearby, watching the river flow in the moonlight. If he thought about nothing besides the shimmering reflections, he might find rest.

He was indeed half asleep when a voice nearby roused him. "Hardin...?"

Hardin opened his eyes again and turned his head to see Aiden making his way down the banks. "I wondered where you'd gotten off to. I waited for some time, but... Is all well with you?"

He really shouldn't have left Aiden waiting with no explanation, but Hardin had completely forgotten. "Well enough. ...Too much drink, it seems," he mumbled. It was an easy excuse on a feast night. He probably even looked the part, slumped against the wall. "I apologize."

Aiden looked at him more thoughtfully, and shook his head. "No, I apologize. You were not ready, were you?"

"...No," Hardin acknowledged. "But you are not to blame."

Though Aiden didn't look as if he agreed, he wisely let it go. "If you need any assistance, getting back to the keep..."

"No, thank you - I'd rather stay here for a time."

"It is cold," Aiden said, dubious.

"I could use the air," Hardin muttered, resting his head in one hand. "I feel a bit ill." He did, after what he'd done.

Aiden nodded reluctantly. "Very well..." He gave Hardin a half-hearted, hesitant smile. "Keep yourself safe, Hardin - we could not stand to lose you."

Hardin's only reply was a heavy sigh, and so after lingering a moment, Aiden went on his way. The brethren truly _did_ need him, Hardin supposed, even if Sydney didn't. Yes, there would be no falling on his sword, no drowning in the river, not even running away unless Sydney ordered him to do so. There was far more than Sydney binding him, and honor obligated him to see this rebellion through to the end - for his sake, for his late brother's sake, for the sake of all those who had suffered under a corrupt church and a puppet monarch.

To do so, though, he would have to come face to face with Sydney again. He was not looking forward to it.


End file.
